


Fairytale of Las Vegas

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Unhappy Families, and of course Sam and Ruth are making an almighty mess of everything, it's chriiiiiiiiiiiiistmas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-25 01:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: After a disastrous Christmas, a cancelled plane means Sam and Ruth have to take an unplanned road trip. But January, 1986, doesn't look to be going much better...





	1. Fly Me To The Moon

Rain drums on the roof of the car, wipers swishing. Ruth leans her head against the window, seeming half-hypnotised by the movement back and forth. Red taillights on the road ahead stretch as far as the eye can see. They’re going nowhere fast.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous. Fucking Christmas.”

“Mm,” she nods. The first words she’s spoken aloud in the last hour.

He gives her a sideways look, fumbling for his cigarettes. “You okay?”

She sighs. “No. Are you?”

“No.” He lights up and takes the first drag. She wordlessly declines his offer of the second. “So, you wanna go first?”

“No,” she says again.

He inhales smoke, sitting back in his chair. Taps his fingers on the steering wheel, considering. “Alright—”

* * *

Rosalie’s house is a neat little duplex with a proper front door and a white picket fence around the front yard. The grass is mowed in strips, the borders sprouting flowers. He might as well have come to spend Christmas on the moon. For a brief second, he considers turning on his heel and getting right back in the cab. There’s no way in hell _anything_ about the next forty-eight hours is going to go well.

A twitch of the curtains upstairs betrays Justine. Watching for him. He sighs defeat, stumping up the driveway to the front door. Raises his fist to knock—

“Hey, Sam.” His daughter opens the door, looking panicky. “Look, I can’t _stop_ them—”

“We… _wish_ you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas!” She is cut off by the carol singers, swinging open the door of the front room to greet him. Three of them. In matching knitted sweaters; green with a white tree. Rosalie is standing behind them looking vaguely discomforted. “We _wish_ you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year!” 

“Hi,” he says, in the space where they pause for breath, drawing things mercifully to an early close. “I’m Sam.”

Brad takes his proffered hand, shaking it firmly. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sam,” he says. “I’m Brad, and these are my two boys. Michael and Tommy.”

He’s not good at judging ages but the eldest looks maybe ten; eyes wide in a milk-pale face. “Merry Christmas,” he squeaks.

“May we take your bags, Mister Sam?” adds the smaller one.

“It’s just Sam,” he says, moustache twitching. Even he’s prepared to admit the kid is cute. “But sure, thank you.” He holds out his scarred suitcase and the bag full of presents, and the two boys carry them solemnly up the stairs.

“You want something to drink?”

“Coffee… would be great.”

“I’ll put on a fresh pot,” Brad smiles. “Justine, why don’t you take Sam through to the den?”

“Sure,” she deadpans. “It’s this way.”

He follows her through to the back, taking in the hallway full of smiling family photographs. Well, everyone but Justine is smiling. “Nice house,” he volunteers, because it is. A bit beige maybe, but neat and clean.

Justine shudders. “Don’t. I hate this place.” She throws herself down on to the sofa. “Did you have a good flight?”

He had a good go at the drinks trolley on it, but she probably doesn’t need to know that. “It was fine. Ruth was on the same leg from Vegas.”

“You couldn’t convince her to come and join you for Christmas with _The Waltons_?”

 “She’s… got her own Christmas thing to do.” One he doesn’t really want to think about right now. “Besides, it’s fucking weird enough as it is without dragging Ruth along. Do they do that carol singing thing to everyone that comes to visit?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” He sits next to her on the sofa. “So, what comes next?”

“Uh, visiting Brad’s mother.”

“What? Are you kidding me?”

“Relax.” Rosalie, coming in with his coffee. “You’re not invited. We thought you and Justine could stay and catch up. Maybe fix the eggnog.”

“Really?” Justine looks like her Christmas might just have come early.

“Really.”

* * *

“Fuck. We’re fucked.” He makes a face and takes another swig from the brandy bottle.

“No, no, it’s salvageable.” Justine pours the foul mixture from jug to bowl again. As if transference is going to make all difference. “I just don’t understand why it’s like this. We followed the recipe.”

“Stop. Just stop.” He disarms her, pouring the concoction down the sink with a grimace. “How many eggs do we have left?”

“Uh, two.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s try this my way. Rinse this out.” She rolls her eyes but takes the bowl. Washes it out while he weighs ingredients with the kind of care he normally applies to loading film. “Now, I need cognac and bourbon. What?”

“You can’t just… knock them out with alcohol fumes to make them think we did a good job.”

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing. Cognac and bourbon. Oh, and rum too, if they have it.”

She sighs, shaking her head, but moves off to find the requested bottles.

* * *

“This is… actually pretty good,” Justine admits, finishing her cup.

“Told ya.” He reaches for the carton of cigarettes in his shirt pocket.

“Oh, um. Brad doesn’t like it if you smoke in the house.”

“Mm. Shame you forgot to tell me that,” he says, lighting up.

She smiles, somewhere between amused and disapproving. “I guess this is pretty lame compared to your usual Christmas.”

“I haven’t really done much Christmas in a while,” he admits.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t have a family, so…” He shrugs. Like it doesn’t really matter. Like he doesn’t just crawl inside a bottle, or snort so much blow he spends the day worried his heart might explode, in the years since Carolyn left.  

“What about when you were a kid?” she asks, oblivious to his misery.

“Oh, God. Church.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Right up until Mom died. And no food all day on Christmas Eve, either.”

“No _food_?”

“Mm-hm. Not until the evening. Then there was a big feast of fish…”

And then a big fight, he doesn’t add. The cast and subject always an interchangeable thing, but it wasn’t a Sylvia family Christmas until _someone_ was crying. The trick, he eventually learned, was getting the shouting in early enough to make sure it wasn’t him.

He doesn’t miss either, the fighting or the fish.

“What about you?” he asks, in a bid to escape the bad alley that is memory lane.

“Not much. When Grandma was still alive we used to go to her place. Grandad would bring back a tree for us to decorate.”

“Cute.” Habit makes it sound more sarcastic than he means it. In his mind’s eye he can see her as a little kid, gap toothed and messy-haired, over-excited for Santa. Something twists in his chest. The realisation maybe, of all the happy family moments he’s missed out on—

The sound of the front door opening disrupts his spiral into melancholy. “We’re _back_!” calls Brad. Sam hastily stubs out his cigarette on a saucer, for all the good it will do, before he enters the kitchen. “How’d the ‘nog go?”

“Try for yourself and see.”

Brad ladles himself a glass. “Mmm!” He takes another sip as Rosalie joins them. “This is really good, you guys!”

Rosalie is a harder sell. “You didn’t follow my recipe.”

“We tried.” Justine, scowling, ready to leap to his defence. As if he needs help overreacting to any perceived slight.

“Yeah, sorry. Couldn’t make it work.” He’s not at all sure why he’s suddenly so angry with Rosalie but she’s _right_ there with him; two sets of hackles raised—

Brad puts a gentle hand on her arm. Blessed be the peacemakers. “Well, you know what they say. A change is as good as a rest.”

“I guess so.” Still staring coldly at Sam. “You going to put Michael and Tommy to bed?”

Brad recognises the dismissal for what it is, shoulders sagging slightly. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll be down in about half an hour. Save me some of the eggnog, please.”

Rosalie waits until he’s all the way upstairs before she snaps. “Don’t fucking smoke in my kitchen.”

“What, you want me to go outside every time?”

“Yeah. And why the hell did you raid my drinks cabinet for the eggnog?”

“Don’t shout at him—” Justine cuts in.

“He doesn’t need you to defend him.”

“She’s right. I don’t.”

“Oh, _please_ —”

“Stop! God!” Tears are pricking his daughter’s eyes now, _and it’s a Sylvia family Christmas after all_ , some dark part of him thinks. “I didn’t ask you to invite him just so you could _fight_!”

“Why _did_ you invite me?”

Her mouth opens and closes in shock at his question: he’s fucked up badly, he can tell. “So I could have a family Christmas for once in my life,” she manages. “Why’d you _think_? God. I should have known it was too much to ask of both of you—”

She breaks off, turning on her heel and running away to her room rather than let them see tears fall. Fucking _great_. Rosalie moves to follow but he holds out his hand. “Just let her go.”

“Oh, what? More parenting advice from the man who thinks he’s a fucking expert after three months of—”

“Jesus _Christ_! That’s not— that’s not what I’m trying to do. What do you think is going to happen if you try and talk to her right now? Twenty bucks says we spend Christmas searching the streets. Let her calm down.” 

She looks at him, utterly furious, but for once in his life he knows he’s right.

“Godammit, Sam.”

“I know, I know.” He makes a face. “I probably shouldn’t have come.”

“No.” She sighs. “But it’s all she’s ever wanted. You know? The rest of the time she never said a word, but Christmas… Christmas is about family. ”

He’s not really sure what family feels like, any more. Only that a meal, months ago now — with wine and laughter and stories about Justine’s day at school — maybe felt closer than _this_ clusterfuck of a thing.

“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Maybe.”


	2. The Nightmare Before Christmas

He pauses in his tale. Ruth is staring out of the window, eyes glassy with fatigue.

“Are you even listening?”

Her head snaps round at his peevishness. “ _Yes_. It sounds… stressful.”

Ahead, the cars crawl forward another foot. It hardly seems worth it, but he turns the engine over and dutifully creeps on. “Well. What about you?”

“What about me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you going to talk about it or what?”

She sighs again, breath fogging the window.  “Yeah,” she says, as if she’s only just coming to the realisation herself, “but… finish your story first. Did Justine calm down?”

“Not _exactly_ …”

* * *

He’s finishing a cigarette when she climbs down the drainpipe, dropping to the ground more-or-less in front of him.

“Going somewhere?”

She flinches but recovers quickly. “You can’t stop me,” she throws out, jaw outthrust in righteous anger.  

“No,” he agrees, grinding his cigarette butt into the patio with his shoe. “So, what is this? We ruin your fantasy Christmas by fighting so you ruin actual Christmas by running away?”

“…No,” she manages, sullen, and he knows he’s hit the nail on the head. 

“Look,” he sighs, “I’m sorry, alright? It’s like I told you before. Just because you want things doesn’t suddenly make me a different person. But I’m trying. I’m trying.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment, mouth a thin line, mirror to his. Eventually she nods. “I just wanted…” she starts, but there isn’t an end to that sentence. Because she wants something that would involve a time machine and a lot of different choices. A father figure that’s probably far beyond what he’s ever going to be capable of being. Which, funnily enough, is something he _can_ understand.

“I know,” he says, because it’s true. He really does. From both sides now. “Will you come back inside?”

She bites her lip. “Can I have some more eggnog?”

“No.”

She laughs at him rather than shout. “You’re really getting the hang of this Dad thing, aren’t you?” 

“Like I said.” He opens the kitchen door for her. “I’m trying.”

* * *

They play Monopoly while Brad arranges presents under the tree for the boys. All three of them pretending it’s fun rather than excruciatingly awkward: that this is what they want. It’s not. But perhaps right now it’s _enough_ , the three of them in the same room together without exploding. They can work on the enjoyment part later. He hopes.  

He loses badly, and Justine pips Rosalie to victory before retreating to bed. He follows suite, shutting himself inside the small guest room. Dumps out a clean shirt and underwear for tomorrow from his horrible suitcase—

_Knock-knock._

He opens the door again to find Rosalie with a slim gift-wrapped package. “Tradition,” she says, handing it to him. “You get one to open on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks. I only have one for—”

“It’s fine. Anyway, I think I should probably be thanking you.” She shakes her head at his nonplussed look. “For convincing Justine not to ruin Christmas. You’re… good at talking her down.”

“Well, I know what it’s like to be _up_.” He shrugs. “So, is there a timetable for tomorrow?”

“It’s Christmas, Sam.”

“I know, I know, but—” He splutters to a halt and decides to give honesty a whirl. “Actually, I _don’t_ know. How it works. With kids, I mean. I’ve never…” He trails off, gritting his teeth against the awkwardness.

She takes pity on him. “You don’t have to join us early downstairs. Justine won’t. How about I get her to bring you coffee once she’s up?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That sounds good.”

She nods. “Good night Sam.”

“Night.”

He closes the door. The eggnog feels a long time ago, and he briefly considers dipping into the hipflask he has stashed in the suitcase. Probably better to save it for tomorrow. He checks his watch, finds it late enough that the Eve has worn off. Technically today. Whatever.

He worries at the Scotch-taped corners of the present Rosalie has given him instead. It feels book-ish; a safe enough gift. He dragged Ruth out to help him on the shopping expedition from hell, eventually settling on a printed scarf he still has misgivings about and a _New York Times_ bestseller she probably already owns.  Fuck it. There isn’t exactly a gift-guide for the mother of the child you didn’t know you had.

It’s a photo album rather than a book. Intrigued now, he opens the leather-bound volume, peeling back the tissue paper that protects the first page.

A baby. Justine, says the rational part of his brain, because it’s the only explanation that makes sense. But — in accordance with ancient laws of parenthood he’s at least dimly aware of — once upon a time, she looked quite a lot like him. The mouth is wrong, but her eyes are his, her shock of dark hair the same. Him, but with deliberate mistakes. It does something complicated to his chest.

He turns the page and she’s a toddler in dungarees. Messy with finger-paints in one photo, pretty in a pink dress she’d never deign to wear now in another. A page turn and she’s a year older, held in the arms of an old man who must surely be her grandfather. There’s the Christmas tree she mentioned, a real thing; one Grandad might have cut down himself. He’s holding her up to place the star on the top of the tree—

And that should be _him_ he realises, suddenly feeling quite sick. He paws through the pictures faster. All these moments he’s missed. Like bad stop-motion animation she sprouts into the teenager he knows. Happy smile fading picture by picture; Grandad seeming to shrink as she grows—

And then he isn’t there. But _Brad_ is, instead, and Justine’s suddenly pickled onion in a fruit salad photo of a happy family. And he understands, finally, what sent her all the way from Sacramento to a casting call for unconventional women in a shitty LA gym. What’s kept her there, as he’s pissed all over the fantasy father she’s built for herself, and why he’s here right now.

“Shit,” he says, and reaches for the hipflask.

* * *

“What did you do?”

They’re moving now, probably slower than he could walk, but he’ll take it over stopped traffic. Ruth looks almost scared to hear his answer.

He shrugs. “I drank my bourbon. I went to sleep. I…” He makes an irritated sort of noise. “… got up when Justine bought me coffee and gave them their presents. Ate too much turkey and played stupid games. What?”

He asks because she’s smiling at him. On some level it feels _good_ , an uncomfortable flutter somewhere in the region of his stomach. Fossilised butterflies attempting to take flight, maybe. But automatic self-defence circuitry is cutting in: he finds it hard to _trust_ a smile, even now, and even from Ruth.

“Nothing! I mean, that’s good! That’s a – a sensible thing to have done.”

“As opposed to what?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Drinking for three days straight?”

“Hah,” he laughs without humour. “Still on the table.”

“Oh, come on…”  

She doesn’t believe him. But truth be told it’s the thought of _this_ —this conversation with her—that’s helped him keep his shit together through the last two days.  “No, I’m serious. It’s such a fucking _mess_. You know? The more I really dig into this Dad shit, the sadder it seems to get.”

“So, you want to, what? Withdraw?”

 _Yes_ , a large part of him thinks. But it’s outweighed by the part that, just for once, wants to see her smile at him proud rather than pick up the pieces of his shitty decision making. He thinks of Justine’s face, opening the stupidly expensive Super-8 camera he really couldn’t afford; her smile the same as the little girl who once placed a star on top of the Christmas tree. Of filming things in the back yard with her while the others found batteries for new toys and sang Christmas carols, and every other ridiculously twee Christmas activity imaginable. That twisted feeling in his chest the whole time, part joy and part terrible sorrow. 

“No,” he says, half-convincing.

“Hmm.” Ruth compresses her lips together, looking out of her window. “Well, I think it’s good Rosalie gave you the album.”

“Why?”

Those big blue eyes on him, nailing him to his chair. “Because it’s not something you’d give to a stranger. It’s what you do for family.”

“Huh.” He hadn’t thought about it that way. “Maybe. It still seemed like a miserable way to spend the holiday.”

“Compared to _what_?”

And she has him there, right enough. “Alright, alright…” This is about as much psychoanalysis as he can stand. He casts about for a change of topic, but the obvious one is right at hand. “What about you? Why was your Christmas so shitty?”

She winces. “I’m still not sure if I want to—”

“Come on, I told you mine.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But _what_?”

“But you made… good decisions.”

He makes a so-so movement with his head. “I mean, I made it through by anaesthetising myself with suitcase bourbon and not absconding into the night over a family photo album. Let’s live in reality here. It was hardly _Miracle on 34 th Street._” 

She has to swallow a laugh at that, which was really his intent. He both loves and hates how _alive_ he feels in these moments; telling her stories, making her smile. “I mean, I could see you with a big beard…”

“Oh, you charmer. Come on. You can’t distract me with petty insults.”

“Just – just promise me this is between us? No one else.”

“Are you kidding? Who else do you think I fucking talk to?” He waves his hand at the traffic, grinding to a halt again in front of them. “Besides, way things are going, we’re going to die of old age in here anyway.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes at his melodrama. “It was the night before Christmas—”


	3. Worryingly Profound

“So, Eleanor is your oldest sister, right?”

“Yes,” Russell says, indicating to turn. “But it’s not a _test_ , Ruth. They’ll introduce themselves.”

“I – I know, I just…”

“It’s fine,” he says good naturedly. “It’s nice you want to impress them so much.”

“I _do_ ,” she says. “This is… important. Family Christmas.” Truth be told she’s never been in a relationship anywhere near serious enough to warrant an invite before. She’s full of the kind of nervous determination she normally associates with auditions. Maybe there’s a parallel to be found there—

“Okay.” He’s pulled the car into the driveway of a sprawling suburban house. The wood needs painting and the grass needs mowing, but there’s a welcome light in the window and Christmas decorations strung along the bushes. It looks homely, she decides. “This is us. You ready?”

“Yeah,” she beams, and follows him out of the car.

A small woman with Russell’s long nose and dark curls opens the door. “Oh,” she cries, enveloping her son in a hug, “there you are. At last. And this must be Ruth.” There’s no standing on ceremony, she wraps her arms around Ruth as if she’s just another member of the assembling clan. “I’m Maria. It’s so nice you could join us.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.”

“Now, you’ll have to take us as you find us,” Maria continues, leading them inside. “It’s all chaos because Sandra and her three are joining us unexpectedly…”

Russell’s youngest sister, prompts the part of Ruth’s brain that normally remembers lines; that helped her ace high school chem. Maybe Russell has a point, about her treating this like a test…

“What? What happened?”

“Oh, Tony decided Christmas would be the perfect time to announce he’s leaving her for another woman.”

“ _What_?”

“I know, I know. Your brother’s already out there looking for him, and Sandra and Eleanor are out looking for _him_ , and guess who’s looking after all the kids…?”

* * *

Ruth, it turns out. The answer is Ruth.

There are seven of them. The oldest is nine and the youngest is three and none of them seem particularly happy to have been left in the front room with an effective stranger while the adults fight over the best course of action in the kitchen. 

“Are you Uncle Russell’s girlfriend?” asks the eldest, twirling the end of one pigtail.

“Uh, yes. That is me. I’m…” She hesitates. Does she deserve the honorific Auntie? She swallows and baulks at the idea. “… Uncle Russell’s girlfriend.”

“Do you work in the rude movies too?” pipes up a second.

“What?”

“That’s what my Dad says Uncle Russell does. Makes rude movies.”

“No, I… I’m a wrestler.”

“You’re a _what_?”

At least she has all of their attention now. “A wrestler,” she continues. “I work with Uncle Russell on a TV show called GLOW.”

“Oh!” says one of the middle-rankers, a boy with a terrible bowl cut. “I’ve seen that. I like Machu Piccu!”

“My favourite’s Sheila!”

“No – Melrose is the best!”

“None of you like… the Soviet Scourge Zoya?” Ruth tries, putting on the accent.

Four pairs of sceptical eyes stare back at her. The rest have returned to smashing matchbox cars off the skirting board. “No,” says the girl with the pigtails, sullen. “She’s a bad guy.”

“Oh, right,” Ruth says, swallowing the Russian. “You don’t like bad guys?”

“No,” says pigtails. “Bad guys are the _worst_.”

“They’re mean—”

“—they don’t play nice—”

“ —and they _smell_ —”

“Oh,” says Ruth again. “… Okay.”

“Are you going to teach us how to wrestle?”

A brief vision of just how badly wrong that could go plays out in Ruth’s imagination. “No,” she says, very firmly. “But… I do know how to make a paper swan from that wrapping paper…?”

* * *

 “Hey,” says Russell, passing her a large mug of mulled wine. “Thanks for doing that.”

“No problem,” Ruth lies, taking a sip.

“No, this is pretty crazy. Even by our usual standards.”

They’ve escaped to the relative privacy of the kitchen, while the children are disarmed of origami swans and wrapping paper airplanes, and sent upstairs for bed. “What… happened?”

He sighs, slumping into one of the wooden chairs around the well-scrubbed table, taking another sip of his wine. “You really want to know?”

“Yeah.” She takes the seat next to him; one of his hands in hers.

He rubs his thumb over her knuckles, affectionate, and sighs. “Mark,” he says, and Ruth’s innards twist uncomfortably at that coincidence of a name. “Sandra’s husband. Has been having an affair with their neighbour.”

She swallows a larger gulp of wine. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, scrubbing his free hand through his hair, blowing out his cheeks in obvious disbelief. “They’ve known each other ten years, she used to watch their kids. I mean, I guess that’s how they got to know each other. It’s just crazy.”

“Yeah,” Ruth hears herself say, somewhat stiffly.

“It’s Christmas. They’re a family…” He trails off, misreading her sudden stillness. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear this.”

“Mm-hm,” she squeaks.

“The real bad news is: we’re demoted to the sofa bed. Sandra and her kids need the spare room.” He gives her a gentle grin, surprised at her lack of reaction. “Not funny, or…?”

 “No, I just — tired. You know, after being a children’s entertainer. Don’t worry about the sofa. I am… I am good with the couch.”

“You’re sure? I feel pretty bad—”

“It’s fine,” she lies again. “It’s all fine.”

* * *

There’s a grandfather clock in the dining room, where they lie curled up together on an ancient sofa bed. Russell is asleep and snoring lightly, as tick follows tock and the chimes count out midnight.

Christmas Day.  

She has to tell him, part of her thinks. The longer she leaves it the worse the eventual revelation is going to be. But how the hell does she start that conversation? _You know how Debbie is getting a divorce and I told you it was complicated? Surprise!_

She shakes her head in the dark. For a while the aching pain in her ankle felt like penance. She broke Debbie’s marriage, Debbie broke her leg. In some strange way they’re all square. But it doesn’t feel like that anymore; not after watching Russell, Maria and the rest of the family comfort the crying Sandra.

_“I just don’t want this for_ them _.”_

_“What? Oh, come on, they’re better off without a waste of space Dad who’d do a thing like that.”_

_“Eleanor!”_

_“What, Mom? It’s true_ _—”_

_“He’s still their_ father _—”_

_“Oh, God. They’re from a broken home now. What if they get bullied at school?”_

_“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”_

_“How would_ you _know?”_

_“I just think that_ _—”_

_“And I don’t want them around_ her _. Honestly, what kind of woman_ does _that_ _—”_

Maybe she doesn’t know why she did it, Ruth almost wanted to say. Maybe it makes no sense to her, either; like something dark and alien took over her sense of self and made her do something terrible…

But that’s not true. She always knew what she was doing was an awful wrong, whatever the end, and did it anyway. Twice.

She winces at the ceiling. That’s still the worst part. One drunken mistake is maybe forgivable, but going for a second round in bitter sobriety—

Or maybe that’s _not_ the worst part, another part of her whispers. Perhaps the worst thing is nothing to do with Debbie and Mark at all; maybe it’s _Randy_. All the Christmases he’ll spend in one home and not the other, the complex negotiation of birthdays yet to come…

By the time the kids sneak down to start opening presents, crack of dawn early, Ruth still hasn’t found one wink of sleep.

* * *

The traffic is finally clearing, the Cadillac picking up speed at last as the freeway climbs up and out of the sprawl of the city.

“So, is that it?” he says, when the silence drags out long enough to feel uncomfortable.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“Christ.”

“What?”

“No, just, from the way you were sulking I thought it might actually be something _bad_ —”

“Were you not even _listening_?”

“Yeah, I was listening,” he snaps, fiddling in his shirt pocket for another cigarette. “You’re overreacting.”

She makes an indignant noise. “Well, I guess you’d know all about that.”

He merely pulls a face, surprisingly un-nettled for a change. “Yeah. I also know a fucking martyr complex when I see one. Blaming yourself for every shitty Christmas Debbie’s kid ever has. I mean, come on.”

“But if it wasn’t for me—”

“—that Cabbage Patch dickhead would have slept with some other idiot. Trust me. Once things are bad, they’re bad. You weren’t the reason. Just an excuse.”

She digests this. “Maybe...”

“I mean, it was still a shitty thing to do—”

“I know _that_ —”

“—but you’re giving yourself too much credit putting the whole divorce on you.”

She risks a glance at him, scowling over the steering wheel, the end of his cigarette a glowing ember in the dark. “I still have to tell Russell, though. Right?”

His scowl deepens. “Why?”

She opens her mouth, closes it again. “He took me home for Christmas.”

“So?”

“Doesn’t that mean we’re… serious?”

He shrugs. “How would I fucking know? And why does he get to decide that, anyway? You’re your own fucking person too.” He takes a deep draw on his cigarette, buying himself time to calm down. “Look. You don’t owe someone the worst parts of your life as some sort of prize for getting to know you.”

“You really think that?”

“Yeah. If it’s not something that can hurt them, if it’s not something you’re going to do again, what does it matter? Confession is absolution. If you _really_ want to feel guilty about something you carry that shit to the grave.”

“Huh.”

Just occasionally, she thinks, he can be worryingly profound.


	4. Desert Motel

The weather clears as they speed into the desert, a thousand scattered stars revealed beyond the banks of dark cloud, unearthly beautiful. Ruth has fallen asleep, curled in the passenger seat. He toys with the idea of waking her for the spectacle but decides to wait. Miles still to go, after all, and from the sound of things she could do with the sleep.

He doesn’t notice the rattle, not at first. Puts it down to the weathered asphalt of the desert freeway. But the burning smell that follows is harder to explain away, and the rising temperature gauge on the dashboard confirms his fear.

“Fuck,” he says, pulling them over to the side of the road.

The cessation of movement causes Ruth to stir. “Are we there?” she mumbles, still half asleep.

“No,” he replies, “not yet. I need to check the engine.”

“What?” she says, more clearly, opening her eyes.

“Don’t panic. Not yet.”

She follows him out of the car, shivering cold in the freezing desert air. “What happened?”

“Don’t know,” he replies shortly, rooting about in his trunk for a flashlight. “Engine’s hot.” It’s a minor Christmas miracle, but the light still has a set of working batteries. He pops the hood, sweeping the thin beam across the malfunctioning engine. “Can you hold—?”

She takes the flashlight from him, pointing it where he directs. “Which part is it?”

“Fan belt,” he grunts, tugging at the thing, hoping it’s merely a slip. It’s not. The rubber comes away in two pieces, worn through. “Fuck.”

“Is it bad?”

“Well, it’s not good,” he scowls.

“Can you fix it?”

“Maybe.” He chews the inside of his mouth, thinking. “Uh. You got any pantyhose?”

“ _What_?”

“It’s not— I’m not being— Look, they’ll work as a replacement belt. Help us limp the next few miles to a gas station or something.”

“Oh! Oh, I don’t think…”

She doesn’t normally wear them. He’s noticed. It’s not something he’s particularly _proud_ to have noticed, but the fact remains. She goes to check in her luggage anyway; he’s not surprised she comes back empty handed. “Okay. Uh, what about… shoe laces?”

“Um, only the ones in my sneakers…”

He’s in his favourite leather boots; practical in many ways but less than helpful in this particular situation. “Yeah, they’ll do.”

She stares at him. “Are you sure?”

He rolls his eyes in response. “Couse I’m fucking sure. C’mon. Before we freeze out here.”

Reluctantly, she pulls the laces out of her shoes.

* * *

The woman behind the desk is about his age, eyes rimmed black with clotted eyeliner. She raises a pair of drawn-on eyebrows. “No room at the inn,” she says, in a smoker’s rasp.

“Aw, c’mon,” he tries. “The donkey’s right outside. Not even in the stables?”

She grins at that. “I dunno. Mary here’s awful skinny for someone expectin’”

“What can I say?” Sam replies, spreading his hands wide. “It’s going to be a real Christmas miracle.”

“I have a ground floor room,” admits the desk clerk. “TV’s broken, and the shower ain’t worth shit. That’s it. Take it or leave.”

“We’ll take it.”

“Sixty dollars.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It’s Christmas. What did you expect?”

He grinds his teeth together, but reaches for his wallet nonetheless. “Fuckin’ scalpers....” 

“I can give you half—” Ruth starts.

“It’s fine.” He counts out the notes onto the sticky reception desk. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“Right back at ya,” returns the clerk, casting a leather key fob at him. 

The room is as grim as he expects, even in the sickly light of the one working bulb. “Sorry,” he says. She merely shrugs, wide eyes on the large bed that’s all the furniture the room has; their next problem. “There’s a garage over the road. Hopefully we can drag someone out tomorrow morning for a replacement belt.”

“Mmm.”

“Uh,” he says, still deciding if chivalry is dead. “…I guess I can take the floor.”

She shifts her feet; the carpet practically crunches. “No,” she says, and decides to try and find some humour in the awkward situation. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I can control myself enough to at least top-to-toe…”

“Right,” he says, “or, you know, we can put a pillow between us.”

“Right!”

He meant it as a joke, but her relief at the suggestion is so palpable it’s probably worth doing for real.  For now, she sits down on one corner of the bed, slipping off her lace-less sneakers. He takes the opposite end, looking at patterns the damp has made in the grey plaster wall as he prises off his boots.

“Ruth?”

“Yeah?”

He pulls the last present out of his jacket pocket, more Scotch tape than paper, and slides it along the covers. Their fingers brush for a skipped heartbeat as she takes the packet, and when he dares to look at her, she’s wearing that frown she has sometimes, the one he doesn’t really understand. Half amused, half confused.

“Merry Christmas,” he manages.  

“Sam… You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know that. I wanted to.” He coughs. “Uh. Couldn’t have done it all without you.”

Her mouth tugs up at the corners at that. And for a beat, for one smiling moment, she’s all there is in the world to him.

Then she looks away, compressing her lips together, reaching into her backpack. “Merry Christmas to you, too,” she says, handing over her own - better wrapped - gift.

It’s a book, an expensive hard-backed one full of glossy photographs. “The Compendium of Modern Horror,” he reads, grinning in spite of himself. She’s marked a page inside with a piece of paper. No, he realises; not paper. It’s a polaroid photograph. All of the GLOW girls smiling up at him from inside their ring at the casino. His moustache twitches.

There must be a reason she’s marked this particular page. INFLUENCED BY HITCHCOCK says the title, which makes a kind of sense and—

And there’s her reason. A photograph of him, in darker-haired days. _Brian De Palma_ , reads the caption, _pictured with Sam Sylvia on the set of Blood Disco_. He runs a finger over his younger self.

Poor bastard, he thinks. You’ve still got it all to fucking come.  

Ruth’s laugh makes him look up. A slim book in her own hand, a collection of postcards bound together. Prints he found in a dusty bookshop: the stormscape artworks of polymath and playwright August Strindberg. On the inside cover, in bold capitals, his epigraph has amused her.

RUTH. THANKS FOR GIVING A FUCK. LOVE, SAM.

And oh, how he agonised over _that_ sign-off. Pointlessly, as it turns out, given her amusement. But he does. That’s the thing. When he gets right down to it, he loves her in all the ways he finds it possible to love another person. Well, in all the ways she’s willing to let him. Friend, mentor, lover – where the line gets drawn is up to her. 

“Thank you,” she says. Her eyes seem to inflate in moments like this; he has no idea how she does it.  

“Oh, don’t get mushy on me.” More of her smiling at him is too much to bear right now. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” she admits, “but no-where’s going to be open for food...”

“Desperate times,” he says, opening his horrible suitcase.

* * *

 

She’s sitting cross-legged on her corner of the bed. He’s stretched out, stiff from driving, on the opposite side. The wrappers from boxes of Christmas chocolate and chips from the motel vending machine are strewn across the covers, demarcating a sort of No-Man’s-Land of midnight feast between them.

“Okay, okay,” she laughs. “How about the time I dated a guy… for three weeks… who thought my name was Lillian?”

He takes another swig of the cheap bourbon he’s carrying across state lines, courtesy of Brad; passes her the bottle. “What, like he didn’t remember?”

“No, I guess I just… didn’t tell him? I mean, it was awkward, but I figured he’d hear someone else say my name eventually.”

“Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head. “I can’t compete with this.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I have plenty of disaster stories but, you know...” He waves a hand expansively, as if that explains anything.

It doesn’t. “I know… what?”

He hunches his shoulders, but of course she’s going to make him spell it out. “They’re fucking _disasters_. With tears and bitter recriminations, usually. The works.”

“Your tears?”

“ _No_ —” he starts, before realising she’s teasing. He huffs annoyance. “Alright, fine. Uh, back in high school I had this chick—”

“This _chick_? Back in high school when you were what – the Fonz?” 

“What’s wrong with Fonzie?” he says, genuinely stung.

She opens her mouth and then closes it again, presumably as she does the math and draws the parallel. The sideburns and the side-parting, the scuffed leather jacket; a part of Sam has never _quite_ left that fifties greaser look behind. “Nothing,” she says, and not for the first time he realises that for such a great actress she’s a terrible liar. “Back to your story.”

“Hmm.” He folds his arms, but they’re long past the point of him getting defensive. “Well, it turned out she had an identical twin.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Except I didn’t know it, until she turned up at my house screaming at me for sleeping with her sister.”

Ruth covers her mouth with her hand for a brief moment. “That can’t be true.”

“I swear. On my mother’s grave. And boy did _she_ whip me for that…”

“Who, the girl?”

“No, you idiot. My mother.”   

“What was _she_ like?”

He frowns, surprised at the question; not sure why she cares. “Uh, self-obsessed. Short tempered. Pretty funny when she wanted to be.”

“That apple didn’t fall too far from the tree, huh?” she risks, grinning at him.  

“Ha ha,” he replies, and unwraps another candy.


	5. Curiosity Killed the Cat

She watches herself in the bathroom mirror as she brushes her teeth. A little buzzed from the bourbon and all the sugar. And something else, if she’s truly honest with herself. The strange intimacy of this roach motel room with Sam, their disaster of a desert road trip.

He’s in love with her. She’s knows that much, she’s not totally naïve. It bleeds out of him sometimes in those jealous scowls when they talk about Russell; in the kindnesses he tries to hide behind hard words and an _I don’t give a fuck_ attitude. But he’s played out his hand already when it comes to trying to charm her, and the _I have a boyfriend_ defence is a pretty effective buffer. His moral compass might wander with his mood, but she thinks he’s burned too badly by his divorce to want to be the other guy in someone else’s break-up.

It makes things easier. Because there _is_ a strange kind of buzz to being with him. Despite her better instincts she still… wonders sometimes. What it might be like to let herself—

She spits toothpaste into the sink. Curiosity, she reminds herself, killed the cat.

True to his word, he’s made a barricade of pillows down the middle of the bed when she returns. “This okay?” he asks, anxious.

“Mm-hm,” she squeaks. He’s still wearing tee shirt and jeans, but even seeing him without his glasses feels oddly intimate.

She tucks herself into bed, lying flat on her back and staring up at the ceiling rather than risk looking at him. He has the bedside table and the lamp.

“You want me to kill the light?”

“Sure.”

He flicks the switch. Somehow, she’s even _more_ aware of him in the dark. The sound of his breathing, the scratch of his stubble against his hand when he rubs his chin.

“Good night, Ruth,” he tries, and she can _hear_ him screwing up his face with the awkwardness of it all.

“Night, Sam,” she manages, more breathily than she intends.

And there they lie, both of them unnaturally still, hardly daring to breathe.

She sighs. “I think I’ve had too much sugar.” A convenient lie to explain the shaking energy that’s invaded her limbs.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“You think we’ll get the part we need tomorrow?”

“I think so,” he says. “If not, we can hitch-hike.”

She snorts a laugh.

“What, you’ve never done that before?”

“No,” she says, incredulous, “funnily enough.”

“Why not?”

“Uh, because I don’t want to be picked up by some serial killer and murdered?”

“Huh.”

She turns to him, propping herself on one elbow so she can see him in the gloom over their barricade. “I take it you have?”

“Yeah. After college I traveled around a bit. Lost my fucking car in a bet.”

“How do you lose a _car_ in a bet?”

“Pretty easily, if you’re stupid enough to put it on the table…”

Yes, curiosity killed the cat, says her treacherous brain as she listens to his ridiculous story. But don’t forget: it was satisfaction bought it back.

* * *

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but at some point she must have. She opens her eyes to find she has curled instinctively around their pillow wall. This isn’t strictly a problem, except he’s done the same on the other side, and now his face is mere inches from hers.

He looks different without his habitual scowl, the gloom of the early morning filling smooth some of the lines on his face. And really, she should just turn over and try to find more sleep. It’s a little creepy to lie here just _looking_ at him. But maybe this is the way to assuage the strange tension that’s coiling in her belly: a dispassionate deconstruction of his face into constituent parts she doesn’t like. He’s not a conventionally handsome man, after all. In fact, after a few minutes she’s managed to convince herself she doesn’t like _most_ of his face, actually—

He opens his eyes and all her good work vanishes in one queasy somersault of her stomach. And he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut for a change; watching her watching him. _What_ this must look like from the outside she can only imagine. Both curled like quotation marks around the pillows, a hand’s breadth from her nose to his. If he moves now, she has no idea what her reaction is going to be.

She hopes he doesn’t. This is enough, right now, this moment of stillness together. Their world, their lives, are all too complicated for anything more than this. He loves her, and maybe she loves him, but she hasn’t figured out quite _how_ yet. The distance between what a friend is, what a lover should be; they’ve been in flux for a while now. Debbie and Russell make for complicated outliers on that spectrum.

His cheeks twitch, a sad little smile. “So, what do you reckon?” he says at last. “You think that diner out there is open for breakfast?”

And she’s smiling too, still half-sharing the pillow with him. Taking just a few seconds longer of this almost-too-close-for-comfort.  “Maybe,” she says. “Only one way to find out…?”

* * *

“Hey,” she says into the receiver.

“Hey!” Russell replies, down the line. “I was starting to get worried.”

“Well, we had a little engine trouble.” She winds the ‘phone cord around her finger, not quite sure how much of the tale she owes him. “But… we made it.”

“Good to know. So, what are you doing this evening?”

“Not much,” she admits. “Most of the others aren’t back yet. I think Sam has a meeting with Ray tomorrow to talk plans for the new year.”

“You think you’ll get new contracts?”

“Maybe.”

Silence, filled with static from the hissing line. It’s not exactly an ongoing _fight,_ because neither of them has any real idea how to handle a disagreement. But it’s a point they’ve both steadfastly been ignoring for a while now: just how long does Ruth want to spend in Vegas?

“Uh,” he says, continuing their avoidance policy. “So, Eleanor was telling me how much she liked you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, surprised at her surprise. “I think Sandra’s going to take the kids to hers for a few weeks while they sort everything out.”

“Did… did Tony find Mark?”

“Yeah, he did,” he says, sounding sad. “I managed to stop things blowing up _too_ badly.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“That’s one word for it.” He sighs. “I just don’t understand what he was thinking.”

“Well, maybe he wasn’t,” she tries, trying to ignore the sick guilt feeling in her stomach. “Thinking, I mean.”

“See, that’s one of the things I really like about you.”

“What?” she says, nonplussed.

“You always try and see everything from everyone’s point of view.”

“Oh! Oh.” She laughs, unconvincing even to her own ears. “Well, sometimes people make stupid, horrible mistakes. When they’re sad, or drunk, or… resentful of other people’s success.”

“Maybe.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“I don’t think most people make those kind of mistakes. I mean, I know _you’d_ never do something like that.”

She winces. All the colour of her little casino room seeming to drain as time crystallizes around her. Because this is the moment. Tell him, or not. If she lets this go she’s committing to – how did Sam put it? Carrying this shit to the grave.

And that will mean she’s got to leave Vegas, leave GLOW. Leave Debbie. Because it’s a miracle no one has told him already, and there’s no way the silence can last—

“I, um… There’s something I have to tell you,” she hears herself say.

At the end of the day, she’s not like Sam. She’s not convinced his take it to the grave strategy has particularly worked out for him, anyway; not looking at the wreckage of his personal life. And, as important as Russell is to her, she’s not at all sure that he’s worth all of _this_.

She takes a deep breath and starts to explain.


	6. Before Midnight

_Knock-knock_

He frowns up at the door. “You can come in.”

In his heart-of-hearts he knew it was Ruth; she’s the only person he knows who feels the need to do something so weirdly formal.

“Hey,” she says, cautious. Unsure, he assumes, quite what kind of mood she’s going to find him in.

“You don’t have to fucking knock like that,” he says, giving her a clue. “This isn’t the principal’s office.”

“I know – I just figured—”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you want?”

“I can come back another time if—?”

“It’s fine. It’s fine,” he backtracks. “Just… figuring stuff out.”

“About the new contracts?”

He sucks air in through his teeth. “Something like that. You wanna see?”

“Sure.”

He passes over the draft papers. “I assume Debbie’s lawyer is going to need to look over hers before she puts ink to paper.”

“Assistant… director?” Ruth reads, not listening.

“Oh.” He swallows. “Yeah. I mean, we’re bringing in the money. You may as well get paid for what you do. Right?” He can’t read her expression at all. “I mean, assuming you _want_ to sign.”

“I – I do.”

“Right. Good. Er…”

“So, what are you figuring out? These look… good.”

“Aah,” he prevaricates. But this is Ruth, after all. “I’ve been thinking maybe I should buy a place here.”

She blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, living out of the casino is not… It’s not.” He stops, sighs, and tries honesty instead. “I’ve been thinking I need a place so Justine can come and stay more often. In the holidays and shit like that.”

A twitch of a smile. “Yeah. That’s sounds – yeah.”

“Uh-huh.” He straightens papers on his desk pointlessly. “Anyway. Why are you here? What do you want?”

She puts the draft contract back down and pulls the invitation out of her pocket. “I wanted to ask how important it was that we attend _this_.”

“You have better plans for New Year?”

“No, I just…” She shrugs. “It’s a costume party.”

“So?”

“So, you’re _going_?” she asks, in disbelief.

“Yeah, I’m going,” he confesses. “It’s Ray’s party. You know. Our boss?”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Why else do you think I’m in such a good mood?” She compresses a smile at that. “Anyway, is it really so far out of your comfort zone? It’s practically the fucking day job for you—”

“Oh, right, because acting is all about the _costumes_ —”

“No, but I mean, it’s a _part_ of it.” He sighs, reaching into his pocket for his lighter. “You want to continue this discussion over dinner?”

“I’d love to,” she says, wasphisly, “but it turns out I need to go and find a costume hire place that isn’t completely sold out already.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, around his cigarette. “Keep your hair on.”

* * *

He’s not watching for her, he tells himself. Sure, he’s drinking bourbon with his back to the bar, eyes on the crowded room. But he’s not waiting for Ruth, specifically. He’s just interested in what everyone’s choice of costume says about them.

The door opens, admitting a dollar-store Tom What’s-His-Face in oversized sunglasses, and another Playboy bunny-girl. Thankfully neither one of them is Ruth. He drains his glass and turns back to the bar, indicating to the barman his need for another drink. It’s only nine o’clock, and already he’s feeling that skin-crawl itch of his other bad habit—

“Hey,” say a familiar voice, and there she is. Dressed in a grey boiler suit and not a scrap of makeup; truly the odd one out in a sea of bikini-clad space princesses, sexy cheerleaders and showgirls.

“Hey,” he returns. “Nice costume.”

She winces at that. “Really? Everyone thinks I’m a Ghostbuster.”

“Because they’re fucking idiots. Obviously, you’re the sole survivor of the _Nostromo_.” She smiles, grateful at least one person present recognises her for who she is. “Great movie, by the way.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah! I mean, it had it all. Science fiction, horror. Amazing special effects—”

“—female lead…”

He puts his head on one side. “Yeah, I guess so. Made for a great twist. No one expected the woman to make it all the way to the end. Uh, you want a drink?”

“Please.”

He motions to the bartender to take her order while she considers his own effort. “It makes more sense when you see me with Ray,” he tries to explain.

“No, no, I get it. Burt Reynolds, right? _The Cannonball Run_?”

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Can hardly fucking see without my glasses.”

“It’s worth it,” she laughs.

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re _definitely_ more like Burt Reynolds without them.”

“Oh, ha ha—”

“I’m serious! I think it’s the moustache…”

“Shut up.”

She takes a sip from her bottle of beer. “So, is it just a dance, or…?”

“No, no. There’s entertainment. This is just the warm-up, something for the kids.”

“What _kids_?”

“Well, you know, I’m using the term loosely to cover...” He pulls a face. “…everyone under thirty?” He catches her eye again, shakes his head. “Didn’t I already tell you to shut up?”

“Oh, probably,” she laughs.

* * *

As New Year’s Eves go, he’s had worse. The dance ends fairly promptly at ten, replaced by a lounge band and a piano singer. Maybe it’s the Sicilian connection, but Ray seems to feel incorporating Sam into celebrations are the way these things should go. Company feels good for once. One of the recently divorced cousins is giving him some heat, and she’s pretty good-looking for someone age-appropriate; at least as far as he can tell without his glasses.

Myopia doesn’t stop him from seeing Ruth, in a booth across the room. Some of the other GLOW girls who weathered the holiday season in Vegas are around too – he’s seen Sheila and Melrose and Arthie sitting with her at various points – but right at this moment she’s all by herself. Watching the band reassemble at the end of their interval. Her earlier good mood seems to have evaporated; if anything, she looks uncharacteristically glum.

“Hey, Sam, we’re going to the tables downstairs in ten. You in?”

“Sure,” he says.

Maybe he can see out his shitty luck with 1985; turn things around as the new year starts and win it big at poker. Stranger things have happened, particularly in Vegas. But before he goes there’s time to blow his chances one more time, on a different sort of hopeless gamble…

“You alright?”

She smiles up at him. “Oh, fine,” she lies. Badly, as always.

“Mmm,” he says. “Wanna talk about it?”

She sighs. “No.”

“Alright—”

“I told Russell.” The words out of her mouth seem to surprise her as much as they do him. “About me and Debbie, I mean.”

He sits down on the overstuffed velvet next to her. “How’d that go?”

She gives him a look. “It’s… well, it’s fucked everything up.”

“Right.”

“Don’t – _don’t_ say you told me so.”

“I’m not saying it.” He catches her eye and risks a bit of humour. “I mean, I’m _thinking_ it pretty fucking loudly—"

“Just – can you not?” she says, holding up her hand to stop him. “I’m feeling sorry for myself. I would have thought you, of all people, could understand that.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. Christ. You want to come and play some poker?”

“No,” she says coldly, “I don’t have that kind of money to waste right now.” 

“Okay,” he says, giving up. “Look, it’ll get better. You’ll probably work things out. Or, you know, you’ll find someone else who can see past that kind of thing.” He very carefully avoids looking at her as she digests these words.

“I don’t know…”

“Trust me,” he says. And maybe she knows what he’s really saying, and maybe she doesn’t. He’s pushed his luck as far as he can and it’s time to move on. “I’ll see you later, alright?”  

She nods. “Have a good night Sam. And Happy New Year.”

“Yeah,” he says, wincing back onto his feet. “Happy New Year.”


	7. Happy New Year!

“I think I want to go somewhere with dancing next,” says Arthie carefully.

“Well, I’m fucking game,” agrees Melrose. “Finish these drinks and head over to the _Riviera_?”

“What do you think, Ruth?”

“I might head to bed,” she confesses.

“Oh, come on. Stop moping. Honestly, you’re never going to have a better chance to get camera-guy out of your system than tonight—” 

“Melrose!” snaps Sheila.

“What? You know I’m right.”

“They _just_ broke up!” hisses Arthie.

“Exactly. No time like the present to hit on that perfect rebound—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says the compare, cutting them off, to Ruth’s immense relief. “Thank you very much for staying with us this evening. We’re going to take you into the countdown to midnight now with a few requests. This first song is for anyone out there who might be feeling a little sorry for themselves tonight...”

A strange prickling feeling in her scalp at those words. Sam is gone, disappeared to the poker tables downstairs with a host of Ray’s friends. But it’s too much of a coincidence, surely, for her words to be thrown back at her like this?

The piano starts, an introduction she only half-recognises, but one that brings the room to immediate quiet.

_“She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes…”_

And maybe she’s wrong, maybe this is far too kind a gesture for Sam to even consider. But as the singer continues, as the strings start to swell, she decides she doesn’t care. Just for a moment it’s nice to fantasise he’s capable of something like this, and – even more ridiculous – that she deserves it.

When the song finishes, she bursts into applause with the rest of the room.

* * *

This is a bad idea.

She’s drunk enough to move by rebounding gently off the walls of the casino corridor, the sticky carpet muffling her footsteps. And it’s not too late to turn around and go to bed instead.

Because this is a bad idea.

In spite of the alcohol in her system, in spite of the late hour, she’s still _Ruth_ enough to know that. So, carrying on, struggling to push open the heavy fire-door at the end of his corridor; finding herself outside his room… This is her ignoring her sensible self to make what she knows is a mistake.

Last chance to back out, she thinks, staring at the dark wood of his door. Still not too late to go home and—

_Knock-knock._

Nothing happens, not at first. Her sensible side manages to reassert enough control to stop her knocking again like some sort of deranged stalker. It’s two in the morning; he’s probably asleep. Or – more likely knowing him – he’s not even home yet.

There is a clunking sound from within. Someone stirring and stumbling to answer the knock.

Oh, fuck, she thinks.

Maybe she should just run. She could probably make it back through the fire-door in time; or at least she could if her legs hadn’t suddenly turned to stone.

He opens the door, blinking in the corridor light; scowl softening slightly as he takes in who has disturbed him. “Ruth? What the _fuck_? Are you okay?”

“I, um, yeah,” she hears herself babble. He’s in his boxer shorts, a tee shirt pulled so hastily over his head he hasn’t noticed it’s inside out. “I just – um –”

“What? What’s going on?”

“Did you make that request?”

He stares at her blearily. “What fucking request?”

Her heart sinks a little. “The singer. I just thought that— well, I thought maybe—”

“Oh,” he says, catching on. “Oh, yeah.” Softer now; anxious in the face of her unknown reaction. “Yeah, that was me. Why’d you… why?”

“I just… wanted to say thank you.” Does she? Is that really why she’s here? Words, words are hard. “Thank you,” she says again, stupidly.

“Oh. Um.” He opens and closes his mouth, struggling to find a reply.

And she knows how this should go. They’ve run out of things to say because what she should do now is reach out for him, and kiss him, and—

There is another soft clunking noise from inside his room. The bed frame moving against the wall as someone turns over. Which doesn’t exactly make sense when he’s standing barefoot in his doorway, almost _guilty_ looking—

And finally, the light bulb goes on.

He isn’t alone tonight.

Her eyes widen in horror. His hedge-backwards-hair isn’t mussed solely from sleep; his tee shirt isn’t the only thing he’s put on inside out. Oh, you idiot, she thinks. You complete and total _idiot_. And the other part of her brain, triumphant: I _told_ you this was a bad idea.

“I—” he starts.

But she’s already turned tail and fled.    

* * *

It is surprisingly easy to avoid him. So easy in fact, that if she was allowing herself to even _think_ about Sam, she might suspect that he, too, is avoiding her.

Now their first production meeting of the new year is inescapably today, and cannot be conducted via the medium of scrawled post-its, or other cast members dropping off papers because they ‘happen to be passing by.’ She’s going to have to go into his office and look him in the eye and pretend that nothing happened. Which – strictly speaking, she reminds herself – nothing _did_. That contemplating stepping over the threshold of his office and seeing him for the first time in a week is giving her a stomach ache is _ridiculous_ —

“Ruth… are you okay?”

Her woman-to-the-gallows expression has apparently not passed Debbie by.  

“I’m fine,” she lies.

“Well, you seem nervous. I mean, it’s Sam and Bash. They’re… many things in these meetings but scary really isn’t one of them.”

“I - I know that,” she says. “I just…”

“Just…?”

“I don’t want to mess things up. That’s all.”

Debbie smiles at that, just a little. “You won’t. Trust me.”   

Ruth smiles tentatively back, raising her fist to knock on the door that Debbie simply pushes open.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

Sam looks up from his desk, scowling, cigarette dangling. “Ladies. Nice of you to find the time to join us.”

“Well, some of us have rehearsals we need to attend as well as production meetings,” Debbie returns levelly, taking her seat. “Now, you mentioned a potential contact at Teletape Studios?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette and rooting about on his desk for the right piece of paper. “A cousin of Ray’s I… met recently.” And maybe Ruth’s imagining the delicate little pause, but she has a surprisingly stomach-churning suspicion this meeting was less the business variety and more the horizontal-tango type. “She can get us in front of a… Tim Jones who controls the kid’s entertainment section.” He finds the paper he’s looking for: a scrumpled bar napkin. “Contact details are here.”

Debbie raises her eyebrows at that but holds her tongue. He found one of their best wrestlers in a strip joint and their route to Vegas at a high school dance. Not to mention Debbie herself, Ruth thinks. He has a knack for turning an unconventional introduction into something useful.

“Sounds excellent,” says Bash smoothly. “Ruth, how _are_ things progressing with the demo?”

And Sam meets her eyes at last, flinty and suspicious. “Demo?”

She coughs to clear her dry throat. “Well, I haven’t had a chance to run things past you yet,” she says, getting her self-defence in first, “but – assuming you like it – we have a workable ten minutes.”

“Great,” he replies. “I mean, assuming I like it.” He’s smiling at her but it’s not a pleasant grin. More sort of coldly crocodilian. Why he’s punishing her she can’t quite figure out, but she’s sick and tired of the emotional whiplash—

“Well, if you could find the time to actually _attend_ a rehearsal,” Debbie says pointedly, covering Ruth’s stricken moment of shame and rising anger.

“How about tomorrow?” he snaps back. “Does that work for you, Ruth?”

“Yes,” she manages, voice as tight and clipped as his.

“Great.” Dripping sarcasm. “Is there any other business?”

Yes, thinks Ruth. Why are you doing this? “No,” she creaks.

“Not from me,” Debbie agrees.

“Meeting adjourned then,” smiles Bash, either oblivious to the cut-the-air tension of the room or determined to ignore it.


	8. Apologies

He sits at his desk, massaging his temple where a tension headache is still throbbing.

And he knows, he _knows_ , he’s making the absolute worst he can of an already fucked-up situation. Alright, so she could have come to whatever realisation bought her to his door at two in the morning a little sooner. But if he wasn’t so quick to drink, snort or fuck the fastest route to heady oblivion he can find in any given moment, he might just have been able to _do_ something about it.

Instead, he’s alienating and offending her again. Rather than just admit to her, and to himself, that he’s the one in the wrong.

He sparks up a cigarette, already light-headed from the amount he’s smoked. “God dammit,” he growls to himself, thumping back in his chair. The trouble is, Ruth’s his go-to-girl for advice about this… emotional shit. When she’s the subject of his misery, he’s pretty much out of options. He puts his forehead down on his desk, fighting hard the impulse to knock his own stupid head against the table—

“Is that wooden sound you or the desk?”

He raises his head an inch or two. Ray is grinning at him from the doorway. “How long have you been there?”

“Not long. If I’m interrupting, I can come back later.”

“No, no,” Sam manages, “please. Come in and join my pity party.”

Ray steps inside, taking Ruth’s long vacated seat. “Let me guess,” he croaks. “Woman trouble.”

“Is there any other sort?”  

“In my line of work? Not really.” He accepts Sam’s wordless offer of a cigarette. “So, tell me. Personal or professional?”

“Let’s go personal…” Of course, that’s part of the problem; the blurred line between the two. He’s no longer technically her boss, but it isn’t as if there’s an even playing field between them. Not when he’s dangling the threat of his next temper tantrum over her wrestling demo. He resists the urge to groan again as Ray continues.

“Okay, so, next question: how badly do you think you fucked up?”

“What’s the scale?”

“A one is didn’t call her after a date, a ten is you slept with her sister.”

“Ha,” Sam laughs without humor. “I guess that really does cover all the bases. Let’s say… a five.”

“Alright,” Ray continues, “so in her reality that’s at least a seven—”

“Oh, _Christ_ —”

“I’d go with a grovelling apology.” Ray counts the options off on thick fingers. “Flowers. Chocolates. Wine. Jewellery.”

“Jesus. Really? All of that?”

“I’ve been married twenty-five years. Trust me on this. There’s no such thing as too much apologizing.”

“Mmm,” Sam growls, still sceptical. “Well, I suppose that’s twenty-two years you have on me.” He lets out a long sigh. “I take it you know a good florist?”

* * *

This is a bad idea.

The flowers feel awkward in his hands. A knot of tourists pass him down the corridor, and he has to resist the urge to hide the bunch behind his back. It’s _embarrassing_ , that’s what this is, and his instincts are… not good when he’s feeling defensive.

Yep. This is a very bad idea.

But when you get right down to it, most of his _life_ has been careening from one bad idea to the next. At least apologizing to a friend for behaving like an idiot is unlikely to leave anyone _else_ with emotional scar tissue. Or actual scar tissue, he thinks with a wince. 

He’s found her door. It’s do-or-die time. And he could dump the flowers and run, leave a note to do his explaining.

It’s tempting…

“Sam?”

“Oh—” He has to bite down on the _fuck_ that wants to follow his exclamation of surprise. “—hey.” And of course, nothing about this apology is going to be straightforward. Nothing with Ruth ever is.

She looks wary. “What do you want?”

“Do you – do you have five minutes?” he says. “Please?” Force of habit makes him sound more peevish than he intends.

“Is it – is it about the demo?”

“No, Ruth. It’s not about the fucking demo.” Now he thinks she’s being deliberately dense. Why the hell would he be standing outside her door with flowers to talk about _work_? He thrusts the bunch at her. “It’s a—” He stops as another gaggle of tourists walk past. “I mean, this is me trying to say I’m sorry. Can you—?” He waves the flowers at her, wanting her to take. “C’mon. I fucking hate public apologies.”

She folds her arms. “You’re sorry?”

Fuck, he thinks, Ray was right. This _is_ at least a seven.

“Really? You want me to do this out here in the corridor?” She merely tips her chin, and he shakes his head. “Fine. Fine. I’m sorry for… uh…” He’s not exactly sure, now he’s in the moment, what he’s apologising for _. I’m sorry for having a one-night stand with the wrong woman_ doesn’t _feel_ like a winning answer. “… for being an asshole,” he tries.  

She purses her lips. “In general? Or you know, specifically?”

“About the demo,” he sighs. “You’re the assistant director. You’re doing what you’re supposed to do, and I am—”

“Being an asshole?”

He probably deserves this. And to his shame, he realises there’s a tiny part of him that even _enjoys_ this. It’s the closest Ruth ever comes to flirting with him, keeping him on his toes with witty repartee. “Yeah,” he manages. “Pretty much. So, are we good?”

She takes the flowers at last, blushing freesias mixed with cream roses, and sniffs the bouquet. It’s a little too cotton candy for his taste but he remembered she likes pink.

“Hmm,” she says, and to his relief there’s the beginning of a smile on her face. “Better, certainly.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, thank fuck for _that_.”

 “I’m… sorry too.”

“For what?”

“For coming over at two in the morning?” she winces, talking more to the flowers now than him. “It was stupid and—”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly making the best decisions either,” he says, mostly to his feet. 

“Really?”

He risks looking at her again, her eyebrows raised in gentle enquiry. “What?” It comes out as almost a whisper.

“I just thought— didn’t the contact for Teletape come from your…” She swallows. “…date?”

He feels oddly warm, the flush in his cheeks presumably matching hers. “Uh. Yeah. So?”

She shrugs. “Not the _worst_ decision, then.”

“Er,” he manages. Again _, I’d rather have slept with you_ doesn’t feel like the best answer, even if it’s the most honest. “I mean, I have plenty to choose from.”

She laughs, turning the bouquet in her hands. “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

He sighs, not quite able to shake the nagging feeling that something has slipped through his fingers. Fuck it. Time to extract himself with as much dignity as he can. “Well,” he says, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Mm-hm,” she replies, still smiling. “Night, Sam.”

* * *

 He is picking morosely at a stack of breakfast pancakes when life throws the next curveball.

“Oh, hey! Sam.”

He looks up into the face of New Year’s Eve 1985 and rolls the dice. “Hi, Julia.”

“Mm, well remembered,” she smiles. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to make things awkward.”

“What’s to be awkward about?” He manages a smile and indicates the empty seat opposite. “I had a good time. I thought you did too.”

“I did. So good, in fact, I left you my number...”

He winces. “And I didn’t call. That was rude.” Ray’s random stop at his office is starting to feel less and less like an accident.

She shrugs. “Or honest. You did say things are a little complicated for you right now—”

“They are—”

“But before that,” she cuts across, “you also mentioned your TV show. GLEE, was it?”

“GLOW,” he corrects. “Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling. You, uh, you gave me the number of Tim Jones at Teletape. Said he might be interested in a meeting.”

“Well,” she nods, “he still might. But I was hoping to run into you again because there’s another producer interested in the show. Now they understand its more than just… cat-fighting.”

“Really? Who?”

“Me,” she says. 


	9. The Producer

“And this is Debbie Eagan, producer and lead actress…”

“A pleasure to meet you.”

“And Ruth Wilder. Assistant director and, uh, chief antagonist. In the ring and out.”

Julia’s hand is soft and warm under hers. “He thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he?”

“Sadly,” Ruth finds herself smiling, as Sam practically squirms in awkwardness.

Julia isn’t what she expected. It’s hard to say exactly what she _was_ expecting – a cousin of Ray’s, co-producer of a local TV network, the kind of woman who thinks nothing of picking up Sam Sylvia in a bar — these are not things that fit easily together in Ruth’s mental model of the universe. But this petite brunette, smart in a business suit and funny to boot, is _not_ what she pictured. 

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt anything. I know how ridiculous that sounds, of course you’re going to know I’m here, but if you run your rehearsal close to normal as possible it’ll give me more of an idea how we can pitch this to Fred and the other network heads.”

“Fred is the other co-founder of Neon Productions,” fills in Sam.

“And my ex-husband,” Julia adds lightly.

Ruth catches Debbie’s eye, where the judges are holding up at least a pair of grudging eights. She likes Julia too, she decides. In a world of sleazebag dickheads, she feels like a breath of fresh air.

“Why don’t I take you up to the lighting box?” suggests Bash. “You can get a flavor of what we do from up there, in front and behind the camera.”

“Sure,” Julia says, “lead the way.”

She follows Bash and Sam up the stairs, leaving Debbie and Ruth to stretch out on the flats.

“What do you think?” Debbie asks quietly.

“She seems… very competent.”

“Yeah.” Debbie rubs a hand over her chin, down her neck, considering. “So, why _Sam_?”

Ruth coughs. “I guess there’s no accounting for taste…”

Debbie laughs at that, just a little. “Okay, _maybe_ I can see a bit of a Burt Reynolds thing—”

“Oh, God. Did I tell you that’s who he was dressed as on New Year’s Eve?”

“Really?”

“Yes! With Ray as Dom DeLuise.”

“Like… a couple’s costume?”

“Mm-hm.”

Debbie’s toothpaste advert grin widens at the mental picture. “Please… tell me you got a photograph?”

* * *

 “Fuck.”

“Is it broken?”

“Maybe.” Sam holds the cable connector up to the light. “I mean, this looks like it got run over by a fucking dolly at some point.” He sighs, rubbing the corroded metal with his thumb. “Cross your fingers…”

He plugs the cable into their ancient camera and this time static snows on the monitor, resolving into a grainy view of the ring. “Oh,” Ruth says, “well, there you—”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Not good enough. Uh… give me a minute.” He lurches off, leaving her alone on the darkened set, surrounded by their cheaply rented equipment. She can tell by the dust and dents alone it’s hardly state of the art. But it’s theirs at least, for the next two days. Hers, in a way; she’s going to be the one calling the shots while Sam operates.

He returns with a battered leather briefcase, opening it to reveal a jumble of small screwdrivers and cables, possibly in even worse condition than their hire gear. There are pliers and cable cutters too, half-wrapped in yellowed newspaper cuttings dating back at least a decade. Some scraps of cotton cloth and a small bottle of isopropyl alcohol.

“Knew I had some,” he says, triumphant, soaking the cloth. “O-kay. This should do the trick. When it’s grainy like that it’s almost always a corroded jack. Uh. Hold this.”

She takes the cable as instructed, two heads bent close over the connector. “How did you _learn_ all this stuff?”

“Same way you are,” he says slowly, absorbed in his delicate cleaning work. “On the job.”

Her smile in response goes unnoticed by him, for once. This time when they reconnect the camera the image is clear. He makes a celebratory fist and slings the thing onto his shoulder.

“How does it feel?”

“Weighs a fucking ton,” he answers, although he doesn’t seem too unhappy about it. “What?”

“Is it possible you’re enjoying yourself?” she grins.

“Yeah, I’m enjoying myself,” he counters. “I’m a film guy, not a theatre nerd. It’s good to have the cameras back, even if they are a load of crap. Alright, so. Opening shot—” He catches her expression, stops himself. “In your view,” he continues, sounding now like he’s reading the words from a script, “should be…?”

She gives him a knowing look. “Actually, I was thinking we get some establishing shots of the Strip. Some of the neon, maybe the sign? Run the announcer’s speech over the top of that.” She clears her throat and in a suitably booming voice continues. “Coming to you _live_ from Sin City Las Vegas… It’s the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling!”

His moustache twitches. “Yeah. Sounds good to me. And I think Julia will like it too. Something that captures the local flavor, like she said. Right?”

“Right!” she says, just a shade too bright. “Okay, so, then we cut to the heist crew entering the casino…”

* * *

Her answer machine light is blinking red.

Ruth takes off her shoes and crashes onto her too-soft mattress, ignoring it for a moment. She’s grinning like a fool, she knows, and she doesn’t care. Kicks her feet in childish glee—

_“Okay,” Julia had said, as they took their usual seats in Sam’s office. Her notepad covered in cramped handwriting; pages and pages of notes about their demo. “First of all, I want you to know I’m interested in taking GLOW further. I think you have a lot of potential. Everything I’m going to say next, every criticism I’m going to make; it’s coming from a place of wanting to get this show back on the air...”_

She can’t quite help but _admire_ Julia. They’ve been bobbing along untethered for such a long time, Sam’s film experiences their only yard stick for how this process could and should work. Now they have a bona-fide television producer on side; crisply efficient at explaining why KDTV’s marketing strategy was ineffective, which of their storylines are likely to play well with the local audience; others they should prioritize for pick up by a national network.

Things are good, she thinks. They’re finally, actually, _good_.

She rolls over and pushes the playback button on the machine. 

“Hi,” says the voice of Russell. “Look, Ruth - I’ve been an idiot. And I want to come and apologise for being so stupid in person. Can you… can you give me a call back? Please?”


	10. Erase and Rewind

“So, this button?”

“Only if you want to erase everything we’ve cut together so far.”

She gives him a dark look. “A simple _no_ would have been fine…” Her finger hovers over the correct key. “This one, then?”

“Yup.”

She presses it. “Okay, so now we need the location footage.”

“Here.” Sam passes her the tape.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She’s smiling again, happy beyond reason. It’s infectious, he thinks. The reason his heart is pounding like he’s mainlined an eight ball, when all they’re doing is working together in the dark of their make-shift editing room.

“Aren’t you excited?” she bubbles. “I mean _finally_ things are—”

“Don’t – don’t jinx it,” he starts, and catches her eye. “Oh, Christ. _Yes_ , Ruth. I’m excited.”

“You just don’t _seem_ very—”

“What? Because I’m not grinning all the time like a fucking lunatic?”

“Yeah! I mean, you seem kind of anxious...”

“Well, you know my mother always told me my face would stick like this if the wind changed.”

She laughs at that. “Alright, okay! Forget I said anything.”

He huffs. “Look, it’s not _this_. It’s uh… Ray invited me to a fucking musical Shakespeare in the park thing this evening.”

“Wow.”

“What?” he glowers, immediately suspicious.

She rolls her eyes at his prickliness. “I just think it’s _nice_ , that’s all. He’s your friend.”

“I mean maybe, yeah,” he splutters, “but I’m not exactly a Shakespeare guy. And I hate going to things like that by myself.”

“So, either tell him you can’t make it or just… invite someone else along,” she shrugs, pushing the button to set the next keyframe. “Okay. Back to the ringside tape.”

They reach for the eject button at the same moment, his fingers brushing hers. And with anyone else it would be a passing awkward moment, but since their motel sleepover Ruth merely walking into the _room_ seems to be enough to make his stomach lurch.

“Oops—"

“Sorry—”

She coughs and pulls the tape out. “Here,” she says, and hands it back to him.

* * *

He finds himself replaying their conversation in his head, over and over, later that afternoon. Lying on his bed in a malaise and trying to summon the mental energy to tell Ray he’s just not a Shakespeare person.

He groans. He should just _go_. Ruth’s right. Invite someone else along and—

And the full extent of his own idiocy suddenly reveals itself to him. What bigger theatre nerd does he know than _Ruth herself_? Christ, musical Shakespeare in the park is practically _designed_ for her to wax lyrical over.

“Fuck,” he says, sitting up. “Fuck!”

He’s lost a little of his zeal by the time he finds himself outside her door, but screws up his remaining courage and knocks before he can think better of it.

“Hey, I was thinking do you maybe wanna—?” The words spill out of his mouth as the door is opening, before he realizes who it is that’s answered his knock. He stops, blinking surprised at Russell, not Ruth, standing in the frame.

“Hey, Sam,” the cameraman says, looking surprised to see him.

“Oh,” he manages, as his heart sinks sickly into his boots. “Uh. Hey, man. Uh. Is – is Ruth in?”

“She’s just taking a shower. I can get her to come over if—?”

“It’s fine. Just a… stupid fucking thing about the pilot tape. Doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure—?”

Sam is already gone.

* * *

Two strikes, he thinks, as he stumbles back to his room. Two strikes now, and he’s done. Fucking _done_. His hands are shaking as he unlocks his door. He finds his cigarettes, lights one; trying to calm down.

Sometimes, most times, things work out this way. It’s the story of his life and he knows it well enough by now to foretell the next chapter. A bar, a little bourbon, some blow. The kindest face he can find to—

He stops. Takes a deep drag on his cigarette as he considers things.

Fuck it. The worst that can happen is he finds himself exactly where he is now, right?

Cigarette dangling, he searches through his bedside drawers for the folded piece of notepaper she left behind, on the bright first morning of the new year. He dials the number, finishing his smoke.

“Hi, this is Julia Weber speaking.”

“Hi,” he says. It comes out louder, harsher than he intends. He swallows, trying to sound less agitated. “It’s, uh, it’s Sam. Sam Sylvia,” he adds, pointlessly.

“Is that like Bond, James Bond?” she laughs. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Sam?”

“I, um, I was wondering if you were busy this evening?”

She takes a breath. “Things get a little less complicated on your end?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, a pretty big problem just worked itself out, actually. And I have tickets to the Shakespeare thing at the _Riviera_ this evening if you – if you’re into that kind of thing.”

Another pause. “Shakespeare’s not really me,” she says, “but… if you want to meet in the _Sands_ bar in about half an hour, I’m sure we can figure out an alternative...”

“Yeah,” he says, baring his teeth in something that’s almost a smile, “alright.”  

* * *

There’s something a slightly surreal about Julia’s opulent home. He’s slipped out of bed for a midnight piss, into a bathroom with marble floors and fancy gold taps that’s something of a time warp.

Alright, so his house with Carolyn wasn’t _this_ upmarket - but it was a damn sight better than the duplex he’s lived in since his divorce. And he’s pretty sure he remembers wishing for the brush of death’s merciful hand in a bathroom showroom once, while Carolyn debated the merits of identical seeming taps that match those on the sink here. That and the framed posters — old advertisements for Neon Network success stories rather than horror films, but close enough — give him the uncomfortable feeling of having stepped back in time.

He climbs back into bed, considering a cigarette until Julia turns over with a sigh, and he puts his arms around her instead. “God, your feet are cold.”

“It’s those fancy marble floors,” he says, burying his face in her neck, trying to lose the feeling of sadness in the warmth of her body against his.

“Mm, you should just be grateful I’m letting you stay,” she replies. But she stretches out against him, at odds with her words, and for a while there are better uses he can find for his mouth than talking.

He wakes in the soft glow of dawn, birds chirping outside and a curious ticking sound coming from the garden he eventually realizes is the sprinkler. He squints at the bedside clock, but the numbers are a blur of red without his glasses. Fumbles on the side table for them—

“No cigarettes,” Julia mumbles.

“What?” He has a hazy memory of offering her a light as his introduction on New Year’s Eve.

“I quit smoking.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm. My New Year’s resolution. Only one bad habit allowed.”

“So, what bad habit are you keeping?” She raises her eyebrows at him, smiling. “Oh. Right.” He considers this, but decides his ego can stand being her bit of rough.

“You need to be gone by ten,” she adds.

“Fred back by then?”

She punches him lightly on the arm. “No need for that tone. He’s seeing other people too. I told you, things are amicable.”

“Mm,” he returns, skeptical.

“I mean it. It’s just my kids will be with him. I’m not ready for that kind of introduction yet.”

“Fair enough.” Neither’s he, when he gets down to it.

“You have kids too, right?”

“A daughter.” He’s still not used to saying that out loud. Something of his discomfort must show on his face, because she’s looking at him strangely now. “I, uh, I didn’t find out about her until recently,” he tries to explain.

“How old?”

“Seventeen.”

“Oh, wow. I was thinking, you know, a baby...”

“Yeah, no.”

“You weren’t kidding about that complicated, huh?”

“Nope.”

“I spent a long time trying to avoid complicated.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s why I married a nice, reliable, German accountant. Rather than some hot-headed creative type.”

“An accountant? Really?”

“That’s what Fred did when we first met. I’m the one that got him into this crazy entertainment business. Poor bastard.”

There’s a warmth in the way she talks about him, Sam realizes. They really _are_ amicable. It’s not a trick he’s ever mastered. “So, what the fuck happened?” he finds himself asking, intrigued.

She shrugs. “We were happy, we had three lovely children, a great business… Twenty years together. And then, one day, we just looked at each other and… realised we weren’t in love anymore.”

“Wow.”

“You think we’re crazy?”

“I dunno, I just think most people tend to stick it out after that point.”

“Well, the business is good enough that we can both live comfortably. And Fred was always very fair, everything fifty-fifty from the start.”

“Huh. I guess that makes sense.”

“You were married?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “for a couple of years.” He looks down his nose at her. “We’re not so amicable.” A bite of warning in his voice, and she doesn’t push it further.

“You want breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“You like eggs?”

He winces at the coincidence, echoing down the decades. “Not a big fan of eggs,” he says, “but I’ll take some toast and coffee, if you have it?”

* * *

“Hey.”

She’s always the first to rehearsal. Always has been. Part of him knew that, presumably the part which piloted him here, and sat him in the front row to smoke half an hour before anyone else is due to arrive.

“Hey,” he returns, stubbing out his cigarette. And it doesn’t hurt as much as it might, to look at her, although the toast from this morning seems to have turned to rocks in his stomach. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” She comes to sit next to him, frown between her eyes. “Um. Russell said you came over—?"

“I was gonna ask you to the Shakespeare thing,” he says briskly. What’s the point in lying, anymore?

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “It’s fine. Didn’t I tell you at New Year’s Eve you guys would work things out?”

“You did,” she says, distantly. “Look, Sam—”

“I, uh, I went out with Julia,” he adds, before she makes things worse trying to make him feel better.

“Oh,” she says again, her frown fading into a softer expression; almost one of surprise. “Did you – did you guys have fun?”

“Yeah,” he says, “we did.”

She nods. “Did she – did you talk about the pilot?”

“No. She says she doesn’t like to mix work and… not work.”

“Sounds sensible,” she replies, with feeling.

“Which is also why she wants to deal with you and Debbie. When it comes to the pilot.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Leaves me and Bash free to pursue some of the national networks.”

“… Of course.”

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

“The _men_ get to deal with the national networks while me and Debbie work the local?”

“Fine,” he spits back, “Debbie and _Bash_ can deal with Julia if that’s what you’d prefer. Jesus fucking Christ. I’m not being sexist, Ruth, just practical. I figured you and me could… do with a little distance for a while.” He sighs, grinding his teeth together to try and control his temper.

She nods again. “That’s probably a good idea.”

Something of her unusually flat demeanour cuts through even his self-absorption. “Ruth, are you okay? I feel like we’re at a fucking funeral.”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just a little tired.” Lying to him again, he knows, though the _why_ he can’t fathom.

It’s not his problem, he reminds himself. It never was. “Right,” he says. “Well, go and get some coffee or something. Don’t want you fucking up in the ring and breaking something else when things are finally working out, right?”

He’d be lying if there wasn’t a part of him that hoped for rage in response – at the very least a righteous _fuck you_. God knows he deserves it.

“Right,” she agrees flatly, instead. “I guess I’ll go do that…”

* * *

She is categorically _not_ , she tells herself as she swipes the hated tears from her eyes, crying over Sam. His double-punch revelation is just the icing on a very miserable cake—

“Ruth? Ruth, are you okay?” Carmen, sounding concerned even through the cubicle door.

“I’m fine,” she calls back, angry at how watery her voice sounds. “I – I’m just—”

“Do you want to come out and talk about it?”

No, Ruth thinks, letting her head drop. But there’s little to be gained by sitting here and letting the rumor mill swirl. She unlocks the door instead, looking up into Carmen’s worried face. “I’m fine,” she says again, wiping her nose with tissue. “I just — Russell and I broke up.”

Carmen’s expression of concern is now tinged with confusion. “I, uh, I thought you guys already broke up?”

“We did, but then he came over to talk about things, and—I just—” She makes a complicated sort of gesture, as if that can translate the welter of emotions in her chest. The fear, even now, that she’s just thrown away her one chance at a vaguely happy, normal life – and for _what_?

Carmen puts a hand on her shoulder. “Ruth, I don’t think you should wrestle today.”

 _Now_ she bursts into tears. “I can — if I can just—”

“You can work on set pieces with me and Cherry instead?” Carmen suggests, passing her more tissue. “I mean, you’re the director. The one that actually _knows_ wrestling moves, rather than calling them stuff like ‘the-jump-off-the-ropes-thing’ or the ‘makes-a-loud-bang-one.’”

She laughs, through the tears. “Thanks.”

“You know… None of us would be here without you, Ruth. GLOW wouldn’t have happened.”

She dabs at her eyes. “Don’t let Sam hear you say that—”

“He’d say it too. Why else do you think you got the crown at the end of last series?”

“Well, I wouldn’t even know how to wrestle if it wasn’t for you and your brothers…”

“We’re a team,” Carmen smiles.

“Yeah,” Ruth agrees, tears drying out. “We are.”

And one she’s not willing to give up for _anything_ , she realizes.


	11. No Smoking Section

“Sam.”

“What?”

“Can you just… _try_ to look approachable and friendly. For five minutes?”

“This is why I don’t do these things,” he argues, slouched in his chair at their booth for all the world like Justine in her more petulant teenage moments. “I’m not touchy feely. I’m not a schmoozer.”

Ruth rolls her eyes. “No, you’re only happy networking when it’s over drinks or… or…”

“Or what?” He’s amused she can’t say the word out loud, only exasperating her further.

“ _Drugs_ ,” she hisses. One of the women in the next booth, easily six foot in her gold jumpsuit and roller skates, glances over. Sam gives her a big smile, and Ruth grinds her teeth together.

“Hey, I’m doing what you asked. I’m _smiling_.” She ignores him pointedly, nose in the air. “Oh, what, so now you’re not talking to me? Seriously?”  He taps his fingers on the desk, unthinking at first, but seeing the noise is irritating her he starts tapping harder; a jaunty little beat.

She could cheerfully strangle him. “Why?” she manages. “ _Why_ are you like this?”

“Because this is a waste of my fucking time. It’s _needy_. Please choose me,” he adds, in a mocking squeak. “Like we’re waiting to be picked for the fucking school dodgeball team. You know, they should be coming to _us_. We’re one of the top headliners in Vegas...”

She has a sudden strong suspicion that schoolboy Sam waited a long time to be _anyone’s_ pick, out on the field. “You agreed to this,” she reminds him. Part of their charm offensive on the national networks, attending their first distributor convention of the year. 

He shakes his head. “Maybe,” he says, mutinous, “but that doesn’t mean I have to _like_ it.”

“Fine, but you also don’t get to sabotage it just to prove your point.” 

“That’s not—” he tries but catches her expression and huffs a sigh rather than finish a pointless denial. “I need a cigarette.”

“Again?”

“It’s not my fault we’re in the fucking no-smoking section. Since when was _that_ a thing, anyway?”

“I like it,” she says, mutinous herself now. “It’s nice to have clean air for a change.”

“Well, enjoy it,” he snaps, standing to leave. “It’s all yours.”

She shakes her head, watching him disappear into the crowds. The most frustrating thing is: he’s probably right. Even with their booth meticulously dressed – with photos and costumes on mannequins and her demo tape playing behind on repeat – it’s a tough crowd to crack. They need to bring an _actual_ demo instead, she muses. GLOW works best when it’s real and visceral; the anarchic chaos of their circus-like show disrupting reality…

Twenty minutes tick past, and there’s no sign of his return. She sighs. Maybe it’s for the best. Petty bickering is not the _most_ professional front for them to present, and it seems to be all they’re capable of at the moment.

She stands and smiles, but there’s little interest from the passing crowds beyond the humiliating flicker of the male gaze, looking her up and down. At least with Sam cold-eyeing the executives she felt less like a piece of meat. She shudders. Time for her own comfort break. Tapes are on the table if someone with a burning interest should pass by while she’s gone.

There’s a long queue for the ladies’ room. Ruth is very much in the minority, dressed in a borrowed pantsuit rather than some sort of skimpy costume. The air is thick with a heady mix of _Aquanet_ and _Poison_ , women crowded round the mirrors to re-apply make-up, talking loudly about the other exhibitors.

The dull ring of an alarm starts as she is washing her hands, barely audible over their echoing noise. It doesn’t prompt much action, beyond some quizzical looking around.

“Is it a drill, do you think?”

“It’ll be a false alarm. And I am _not_ losing my place in this queue.”

Ruth steps outside, the collective apathy of the crowd at odds with her own instincts to dutifully follow the rules and evacuate. The alarm is still ringing. She hesitates, not sure if she should return to their booth, or do the sensible thing and leave. There’s more than half a chance _Sam’s_ the cause of the alarm anyway, she thinks with a scowl, smoking an illicit cigarette somewhere he shouldn’t.

_Brrrriiiiiiinnnng_.

Gradually, half-heartedly, movement towards the doors marked with emergency exit signs begins. Ruth joins the throng crowding into one of the stairwells. Queuing again, as progress grinds to a halt.

“If it was a real fire we’d have burned to the ground by now,” someone behind her grumbles, and she twitches a smile.

“What’s causing the hold-up?”

“Come on, people!”

More have joined the queue behind, jostling to get on the stairs. Someone stumbles, knocking her hard into the wall.

“Sorry, sorry! It wasn’t me, it was—” the stumbler apologises, before he’s cut off by a red-faced man making his way back _up_ the stairs.

“It’s locked!”

“What?”

“What’s _locked_?”

“Go back! This door isn’t working.”

And now there are _two_ streams of people, those pushing to go down and those trying to get back up. Ruth winces as she’s jostled like a pea in a drum, rubbing at her bruised elbow. She lets herself get caught up in the tide of people pushing back towards the main corridor. By now it’s as crowded as the stairwell, delegates pouring out of the main conference hall towards their nearest exit. Ruth edges along the outer wall instead, towards the other set of emergency doors.

Something seems to catch in her throat. She’s coughing before she’s even registered the acrid smell, trying to catch a breath that won’t come. Dizzy and suddenly sick-feeling. Others around her are starting to cough too—

There’s another stairwell on her left. She pitches downwards, more by instinct than design, stumbling out onto the parking lot. Hands on her knees as she draws in grateful lungfuls of air, like she’s just finished a training run with Cherry—

“This way please, ma’am, this way.” A hand on her arm, pulling her along; away.

“Wait, please… stop!” She tries to shrug them off. “My friend – all our stuff. It’s still in there.” She manages to tug herself free, turning back—

Smoke; thick, black smoke, is pouring from the windows of the convention centre, incongruous against the blue of the afternoon sky. She stares, non-comprehending. The scene is like something from a film; a news bulletin; not a sight for real life.

“ _What_ —?” she hears herself exclaim, even though the answer is obvious, unfolding right of front of her. In the distance she can hear the sirens wail.

“Please, ma’am, over here.”

The helping hand on her arm again. This time she lets it take her, leading her away, even as she keeps her watering eyes on the plume of smoke.

* * *

“You need to keep that mask _on_ ,” orders the EMT, as Ruth reaches for the plastic on her face once again.

She tries to explain, but the words are jumbled, muffled by the oxygen mask.

“Look, you got a lungful of smoke in there. It’s important you sit still and breathe that oxygen, alright?”

She nods, too dazed for further disobedience, concentrating on breathing slowly in and out. She’s sat behind the cordon, in a mess of flashing lights and crackling radios. TV crews are pulling into the parking lot. Ambulances honk angrily at the vans, disgorging reporters to gabble excitedly into microphones.

“..coming to you _live_ from the Indio Valley Convention Centre, just outside Palm Springs, where this afternoon a fire has broken out in the main hall…”

“ _Un_ _fuego terrible ha estallado…_ ”

“…and we’re hearing from the mayor’s office there is no confirmed count yet on casualties, although estimates on the ground suggest as many as fifty people are still unaccounted for...”

She turns away, trying to shut out the sounds of their speculation; concentrating on the faint hiss of oxygen coming from her mask instead.

There’s no sign of Sam. She can’t help but feel that, if he was here, he’d be obnoxiously loud enough to be obvious. Hopefully he’s waiting for her back at their hotel. Unless he got caught up in things badly enough to need the hospital himself…

The other option her imagination baulks at, even as dread fear turns her stomach over. He’ll be fine, she tells herself. It’s Sam after all. He’s by nature a survivor. She takes another deep breath, shaking the mask to get rid of water condensing on the plastic.

He’ll be fine. He almost always is.


	12. Melodramatic

“Sir. Sir, please. You need to stay behind the cordon.”

“Look, I’m just trying to find my friend. She was inside when all this shit kicked off and—”

“I understand, sir, but you can’t come in here.”

“Oh, come on! What else am I supposed to fucking do?”

It comes out more brokenly than he intends, but it’s the truth. He can’t find Ruth and he has no idea what to do next; miles from home and miles from help.

“Look,” says the young cop on the barricade, taking pity on him. “You could try ringing the local hospitals to see if she’s been admitted. Most of the people from inside got taken to the JFK Memorial or the Linda Loma. It might take a while to get through, though. They’re dealing with a lot of people right now.”

“I get it.” He peers over the kid’s shoulder, just in case, but there’s no sign of her amongst the walking wounded. “Thanks for the tip.”

He doesn’t have the pocket change to make the calls from a payphone, even if he can find one. His best option is to go back to his hotel room and call from there. Still, it feels wrong, turning his back on the convention centre and walking the few blocks uptown to where they checked in only this morning.

He’ll come back, he decides. If he can’t get through to anyone, he’ll come back, and _fuck_ any cops that tell him he can’t—

“Sir,” says the clerk behind the reception desk, actually taking a step back as he approaches the desk. “Are you okay?”

“I need the key to room two seven two,” he says, rather than answer a stupid question. “Booked under the name Sylvia.”

“Of course, sir...”

He’s aware of the hush, spreading out across the busy reception. The television screens behind the desk are showing the same rolling seconds of film. Blackened windows; a plume of smoke into the sky. The acrid smell of it he knows is caught on his clothes, in his hair.

He glares right back at those that stare, radiating enough anger they baulk and turn away, look at their shoes instead. No one dares to ride the elevator with him up to the second floor.

He throws the keys down on the desk once he’s inside and reaches instinctively for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket. His hands are shaking, fumbling on his lighter as he struggles to spark-up.

Please be alright.

It’s all he can think. A mantra, round and round.

Please be alright, because then it doesn’t matter that he was busy fortifying himself with a line of blow in the bathroom when the alarms went off.

Please be alright, because he hasn’t found the humility yet to apologise - whole heartedly and unreservedly - for being a complete _dickhead_ in the weeks since he came to her hotel room and found Russell there instead.

Be. Fucking. Alright.

Because if she _isn’t_ ; if something has happened to her—

He dials directory services and makes the first call, finishing his cigarette to the sound of the dial tone. Engaged. He calls the second hospital. Engaged. Back to the first—

_Knock-knock._

The tap makes him flinch and drop the handset. It’s the cops, he thinks wildly, cold dread rising. Come to make a reality of his terrified imaginings.

He crosses the room on legs of lead to wrench open the door.

Ruth.

Her face pale, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot; stinking of smoke and ozone. A mess, in short, and one he’s never been happier to see.

“Oh, thank _fuck_ ,” he says. Touches a hand to her arm, instinctive. Reassuring himself that yes, she is here, and she is real. To his surprise she reaches back for him, and they embrace.

“I realise this sounds very melodramatic,” she says, voice slightly muffled with her head buried in his shoulder, “but I thought you might be dead.”

“Me too,” he confesses. “I was calling fucking hospitals.” He lets go of her, enough to see her face at least. “Are you – are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Fine. Well, they gave me some oxygen for smoke inhalation…”

“Shit. That sounds serious. Do you wanna come in and sit down, or—?”

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Almost frowning at him now, like he’s a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “No,” she says. “No, I want— I—”

“What?” he asks, thoroughly at sea.

She kisses him. All in a rush; hard and blind. An act of almost _panic_ that takes him by such surprise he just stands stupefied. She presses harder against his mouth, one last desperate attempt to receive a response. And he stops trying to think with his brain, about what the fuck this all means, and just kisses her back instead. Gently at first, half-expecting her to suddenly stop, to flee. Her mouth opens under his instead and some monstrous _need_ seems to explode out of his chest. She gasps as he pulls her tight against him, wraps her arms around his neck. Kissing now like the world might end if they stop.

“Ruth,” he manages, against her mouth.

“Mm-hm,” she says, nodding at her name like it’s a question, her nose tracing against his. She takes his face in her hands as he stumbles backwards, as the door clicks shut behind her. Don’t stop. He understands.

His jacket goes first; the shirt pulled out of his jeans next. A noise, somewhere between gasp and growl, escaping his throat as fingers ghost up his spine. He retaliates by unfastening every one of those stupid shiny buttons on the front of her pantsuit, sliding his hands inside to trace the curve of her waist. Moving upwards, over ribs and under bra; and it’s her turn to moan as his hands smear over her breasts. She goes straight for the nuclear option in return, thrusting a hand into his pants and taking hold of his erection—

He grabs for her wrist, because there’s a very real chance he’s going to come there and then if this carries on. She misinterprets, predictably, flinching back like she’s been burned. _Christ_ she’s beautiful with her face all flushed like this; her pupils blown. And yeah, there’s a part of him that’s soft enough to want their first time to be slow; to be savoured. But there’s no way in hell he’s capable of that right now, and he’s too far gone to want to stop. He puts her hand on the top button of his shirt instead and she gets the idea, fumbling it open.

There’s something electric about the feeling of her skin against his when they embrace again. His mouth slips to her neck, her breasts. Peeling her out of that ridiculous pantsuit, the sensible and practical underwear. She catches his chin in her hand after a while, making him look her in the eye. And he knows another twinge of regret, at his desperate need to be inside her _right_ _now._

But when she’s looking at him like that, really, what fucking choice does he have?  

It’s not cinematographic love-making he’d be the first to admit. The awkward one-legged dance of removing his pants on the way to his bed; the adrenaline rush that’s making him tremble and shake as he climbs on top of her. He moves against her, pushes inside her, and is almost undone by the hitch of her breath. She arches her back to find a better fit for them together, and within moments they’re fucking frantically. That desperate _want_ has overtaken him again, and when she gasps out his name, he comes like it’s on command.

He stays tangled with her for a long moment, miserably aware he’s lasted all of two minutes and is wheezing slightly: a who-knows-how-many packs a day smoker who’s just done the cardiovascular equivalent of running a mile. “Don’t go,” he says, levering himself up onto his elbows, so he can see her face. “Please. We can get…. room service? Or—”

“I’ll stay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” The beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I mean, I want to.”

“Oh,” he says. Not smiling back, not at all certain if he really _believes_ her. “Good.”


	13. Night To Remember

“Hey. How’re you doing?”

Sam’s voice, cutting through the pillow-soft world she’s currently inhabiting, drifting up from the depths of slumber. She’s about to answer when—

“Yeah, I — Yeah, I’m okay. Ruth too. I thought you might have, so I called… Uh-huh. Anyway, enough of my shit. What did they think of your short at AV club…?”

She feigns sleep instead, feeling vaguely guilty for eavesdropping, but she can’t exactly shut down her sense of hearing. And it would feel even _more_ awkward to get up and leave _now_ —

He puts down the phone. “We made CNN,” he says shortly, and she opens her eyes.

“Mm,” she tries, “sorry – I was —”

He shakes his head, clearly not at all fooled, and unmutes the TV screen. A somber looking reporter is standing in front of the barricades. _“… scenes of devastation. As night falls over Indio Valley, local residents are asking themselves the question: how did this happen here?”_

“Turn it off,” she says, suddenly dry mouthed. “Please?”

He clicks the button. “I thought Justine might see. Get worried.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Shit, I should – we should I mean – call Debbie…”

He raises his eyebrows. “Not Russell?”

She flinches, suddenly almost nauseous with guilt. “Not Julia?” she returns quietly.

He looks away, gritting his teeth. “We’re not – it’s not that –”

“Russell and I broke up.”

His head snaps round. “ _What_?”

“That day, when you came round about the Shakespeare? We, um, we decided it wasn’t going to work out with the distance and…” She can’t read his expression at all, her mouth running on and on in panic. “And I wanted to tell you, but then I didn’t want you to think—and then it was just easier, you know, with us… not really talking properly—”

Its his turn to sigh, head dropping into his chest. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, no. This is… me. _I’m_ sorry, Ruth. For a lot of fucking things.” He crosses to her, although he looks like it’s against his better judgement. “Including today. I was being childish and stupid. And then I didn’t know what the fuck had happened and— and then I realized—” His voice cracks, and he screws up his face, sniffing.

“I know,” she hears herself say, reaching for his hand instinctively. She knows all of it. The dread fear of thinking she might be hurt or worse; the reason he’s barely been able to look at her these last few weeks. It’s stupid and hopeless and undeniable, and she can’t bear for him to say the words out loud any more than he can bring himself to say them to him.

He nods, compressing his lips together, keeping those words they don’t dare say behind his teeth. “C’mere,” he says instead, folding her into his arms again.

And this is it, she thinks. Their _Casablanca_ moment. They both know what will happen if they try and make anything more of this: nine chances out of ten they’ll wind up breaking apart and taking GLOW down with them.

They’ll always have Indio, Palm Springs.

And if _that’s_ the case, says the treacherous part of her brain, it only seems fair they have… a bit _more_ to look back on. A night to remember rather than an ecstatic eight minutes.

She presses a kiss into his neck. Another against his cheek. Moving to find his mouth—

He gets there before she does, greedy and desperate. She can’t pretend it doesn’t feel good. Almost a _relief_ , his primal need for her. He spends so much of his time pushing people away it’s intoxicating to be pulled towards him instead. A strange sort of prize, to have robbed him of his bitter self-defense; the reward for which is a pair of anxious brown eyes, watching her carefully as his hands move over her body. This is all he thinks he has to offer, she realizes. He’d be a terrible husband – but at least he’s a good fuck.

He is, to give him his due. He knows what he’s doing and he’s good at picking up signals. Or maybe the bedroom is just another place they work strangely well together, building on each other’s ideas until—until—

Until he finds her hands, lying empty against the pillows. His palms press into hers, fingers knitting tight, tighter together, until they’re white knuckled with pressure. On the edge of release; and he’s making a soft kind of noise with every thrust now, and fuck— _fuck—_

He stops and stills as she does, holding back from his own climax. She can feel the race of his cocaine-heart, ticking away against her ribs, and quite unbidden her hands find his face. She traces lines of care around those worried eyes. It makes his mustache twitch; a sad little smile. “It’s not the years,” he offers, “it’s the mileage.”

She laughs. “ _Not_ what I was thinking.”

“Oh?”

She kisses him in reply, soft and gentle, all over his hangdog face. Until he finally cracks and laughs, rolling her over and on top of him. Hands on her hips and a devilish look of determination. Almost a different man when he’s grinning like this. Life in him – just about – yet.

* * *

They don’t really sleep.

She dozes in fits and starts. Between scraps of conversation and kisses; after one final bout of love-making, soft and slow in the small hours of the morning.  If he closes his eyes at all it’s only when she does.

And she isn’t quite sure who he is right now. He _sounds_ like Sam; the cigarette-smoke burr of a voice that she’s used to. But his vocal tics of _fucking_ this and _Jesus Christ_ that are wrapped around other words: _please_ and _more_ and _tell me about_ and _what did_ you _think_? That softer, kinder version of himself; the one that once picked out pink donuts for her, and saved a wrestling boot from hospital scissors.

She’ll miss him. He isn’t going to come back to Las Vegas with her, she suspects.

Dawn breaks outside the window and he checks his watch on the side-table to see how long they have left before their flight.

“Time to go?” she asks.

“Uh, not quite.” He catches hold of her fingers, tracing idly through the hair on his chest, and brings them to his mouth. “I’m going to get a later flight,” he says. “There might be things we can salvage from the venue.”

“I can—”

“I know you can.”  His mustache is tickling the inside of her wrist now. “But I want to do this. Alright? Call it… my apology for being such a fucking idiot. You can tell the others we made it out okay.”

 She bites her lip. “Fine,” she says eventually, “but only because—”

“Jesus _Christ_.” But he’s smiling, for once, as he says it. “You don’t ever stop, do you?”

“No,” she replies. “I thought you knew that by now.”

He kisses her mouth, finally. Long and slow. A goodbye; this brief window of insanity closing, the reality of their lives returning.

“Bye, Sam,” she says, when they eventually break apart.

He turns over for his cigarettes as she untangles her legs from the bedsheets; finds enough of her clothes to make the dash across the corridor to her room. Looking at his lighter rather than at her. “I’ll see you later,” he says.

And that, she thinks – as she steps out into the hotel corridor; as the door clicks very firmly shut behind her – is that.


	14. Hold a Candle

In the artificial environment of the casinos, the passing of the seasons is marked mostly by the change in decorations. Christmas trees and fairy lights have long since disappeared, gradually replaced by gurning Cupids and paper-heart streamers in the run up to the lucrative Valentine’s Day weekend.

The cherubs irritate him on a visceral level. “More of this cheesy bullshit,” he bemoans, waving at a wall as they walk. “Christ. When did it become such a fucking _thing_?”

“Wasn’t it always?”

“I don’t remember it being this bad. But who the fuck knows?”                            

He kicks open the door to their new studio space, the hammering and banging of construction in full swing. It’s smaller than the room they used for their live show. The casino can’t justify a whole theatre-space for them, not now they’re down to just one night of ticket sales a week. But the change of venue is really a win, heralding their return to the airwaves; albeit for a limited run of ten episodes on _Teletape_ until they prove they can retain their audience.

GLOW is _back_.

At his side, Ruth is grinning like she’s swallowed a banana fucking sideways. “Alright, Pollyanna.” A cigarette already on the way to his mouth. “Keep it together. I’m going to go check on the lighting grid and scare the shit out of our new camera guys. You ready to brief the girls?”

She nods. “Absolutely.”

“Great.”

He strides away. Well, that’s his intention, but his natural gait is more of a saunter. A shuffle, if his boots are pinching him—

Christ, he thinks. Even his _brain_ is burbling. Either he’s overdone the coke, hastily spooned up his nose before meeting Ruth for breakfast, or this is just the reality of working with her now.

He thought he was doing pretty well. Admittedly, he’s developed a habit of talking to her left earlobe rather than look her directly in the eye, but things have been… civil. Maybe even cautiously cordial, at times. Perhaps it comes down to this: just because they _can_ make each other weak-kneed if they want to, doesn’t mean they _have_ to. There’s a power in knowing that, and for once in his life it feels held evenly. Letting his guard down hasn’t immediately bitten him on the ass, for a change.

He sighs and gets on with the job in front of him.

“Hey,” An up-thrust of his head in greeting. “I’m Sam. You guys shot much TV before?”

The new crew nod; the two older guys more emphatic. Larry, he thinks one is called, the other… is probably Dave. Worryingly indistinguishable, with their matching bald patches and paunches. A younger man rounds out the trio, Jason, with the round John Lennon glasses and hippyish hair.

“Good to meet you, man,” Jason says, holding out his hand.

Sam briefly considers firing him on the spot, annoyed already at his affectation, but grits his teeth and takes the hand instead. “Yeah,” he says, “you too.” He clears his throat. “Okay, enough gossiping. We can leave that to the women. Here’s how this works…”

* * *

“Are you… alright?” Ruth, sounding vaguely amused, from the door.

“What?” He glances up, annoyed at the question. “Why’d you say that?”

She unhooks her bag over her head, dumping it on a seat. “Well, one, you’re here early. Two, you’re in the ring. And three, you seem to be wiring explosives to a small plastic cherub…”

“You were the one who said we needed pyrotechnics,” he gripes, squinting over the top of his glasses. “O-ka-y. That should do it.”

“Are you _sure_?" she fusses, following him a safe distance. She stops under his scowl. “Alright, okay! Show me the special effects, then.”

He goes one better, handing her the detonator. “Just push the red button,” he says, as she hesitates.

It’s her turn to roll eyes exasperated. “I know _that_ – I just – I don’t want to get the blame when you blow a hole in the—”

“Jesus Christ. Just push the button already.”

She makes an irritated noise but clicks the detonator with her thumb. Nothing happens. His shoulders drop. “Well, that was underwhelm—”

_Crack_!

They both flinch as the cherub explodes, raining plastic pieces across the ring. “No,” she says, very firmly.

“Aw, c’mon—”

“Sam! You can’t blow up a flying _baby_! Plus, you’re going to set someone on fire. Or worse.”

He sighs. “Fine. Fine. I’ll think of something else.” She is scrabbling in her bag now, frowning. “You lose something?”

“Yeah, I thought I had a pen, I … Never mind. Never mind.” She gives him a slightly anxious look but confesses quickly. “I have some more ideas about the final casino heist gag.”

“Oh, great. I mean, we’re only filming it fucking _tomorrow_.”

“Don’t be—”

“What, a realist?”

“Grumpy. I need… hands-over-everything Sam, please.”

And for a white-hot second all he can think of is her body, under his hands, and—

He coughs.

“Sure. I’ll just, you know, make a call back to nineteen seventy. See what he’s up to today.”  She raises her eyebrows at him and he gives it up. “Fine, fine. I’m listening. Go.”

* * *

“Hey.”

She’s dressed as Ruth but still wearing Zoya’s face. An odd combination to make his mouth go dry, but there it is. He swallows. “You sure you wanna do this? I don’t mind if you need to go celebrate with the girls.”

“No,” she says, breathy light, taking the seat next to him in the editing box. “This is the job. Assistant director. I’m here to, you know. Assist.”

“Uh-huh.” He lights a cigarette. “I can’t promise I’m not going to get cranky.”

“Oh,” she says, unable to quite repress her smile. “oh, no…”

“Hmm. Shut up.” He runs a finger down the list of shots. “Okay. Well, we got pretty much everything we needed. Even if Probably Dave can’t tell fucking… left from right…”

And outside their cramped little space, beyond the rows of hard plastic chairs and the short flight of stairs, Las Vegas is swinging. The casinos are packed for the upcoming Valentine’s weekend; booze and blow flowing freely. He could go watch Liberace or throw good money after bad with Ray at the tables. A million and one ways to distract himself from the soul-suck feeling of loneliness. The creeping dread which wakes him in the middle of the night sometimes; that he’s well on his way from a cold and empty bed to an early grave and—

He risks a glance at her, completely absorbed in cutting together Debbie’s reaction to Tammé’s villainous monologue, biting her lip.

Yep, he thinks, there are a lot of things he _could_ be doing right now. But not a one of them could hold a candle to this.   


	15. The Creep

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” says Debbie, closing her locker door with an exasperated sigh.

“Are you alright?”

She nods. “I’m fine. I just… feel like I might lose my head if it wasn’t sewn on, you know? I swear I had a hairbrush in here. Mark is in town with Susan to pick up Randy, and I want to look like something approaching a normal human being to go and meet them, and—”

“Oh, you’re not going crazy,” says Melrose, unlacing her boots. “I, too, have been a victim of this particular thief.”

“For God’s sake!” huffs Jenny. “Why would I want your _socks_?”

“I don’t know but you took ‘em!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Wait, wait – has stuff been taken from your locker too?” Arthie, frowning concerned.

“Yeah, her stinky gym socks—”

“Shut up Jenny, this is serious,” Melrose snaps. “Sheila, didn’t you say your book was moved last week too?”

“Missing,” Sheila corrects. “I said it went missing.”

Debbie exchanges a worried glance with Ruth. “Who has the keys to get in here?”

“Us,” Ruth replies, counting out on her fingers. “Sam. Ray has a set, I think. The casino janitors, maybe?”

“They shouldn’t be going in lockers, though.”

No. We should… investigate.”

Debbie’s mouth twitches, amused. “Like, Nancy Drew?”

“Yeah! You feel up to taking on the case?”

“I mean, not right this second,” Debbie says, tucking errant strands of hair back into her ponytail. “But… tomorrow? If you’re free?”

“Yeah,” Ruth says, smiling herself. “I’m free tomorrow.”

* * *

“I dunno,” says Sam, only half listening. “I mean, it sounds like pretty small stuff. Are you sure you didn’t just _lose—_?”

“Sam?” Debbie is at least two thirds of the way to strangling him, if Ruth’s any judge. “Yolanda had her _underwear_ taken. You don’t just _lose_ your fucking underwear.”

“Well, _I_ —” he starts, before catching Ruth’s eye and apparently thinking better of it. “Fine. Fine. What do you want me to fucking do about it?”

It’s Debbie’s turn to look nonplussed. “Well…”

“Why don’t you start by telling us who has keys?” Ruth suggests.

He makes a face. “How the fuck would I know? Go ask Ray.” He sits back in his chair. “What are you planning to do when you find out, anyway?” He rolls his eyes at their blank faces. “Jesus Christ.”

“Well,” Ruth says slowly, “Sheila suggested we… poison some candy and see if someone takes it and gets sick?”

A moment of silence while they digest this. “Creepy,” Sam says. “Definitely illegal.” He considers things further. “Did she say what _kind_ of poison—?”

“ _Or_ ,” Debbie interjects, a note of sanity, “we could just get someone who isn’t wrestling to… hang out in the locker room.”

“Right. Do that,” Sam says. “Before you go _Hill Street Blues_ on some poor fucking janitor…”

* * *

She was expecting it to be subtle, clever. Hiding in the toilet cubicle with her feet tucked up she imagines a thief creeping in through the window, or sliding back a ceiling panel…

Reality is much more depressingly mundane.

She’s bored and numb with sitting, listening to the rattle of the mat through the walls; the low rumble of Sam’s voice. Counting down the seconds to her allotted tag-out time with Jenny—

The door to the changing room squeaks open, and Ruth stops breathing.

Footsteps. Heavy, boot-clad; definitely not one of the girls. A pause. The creak of locker door hinges. She keeps herself tucked up tight, hidden. Until the realisation hits that without at least _peeking,_ she’s as good as useless. She screws up her courage and presses her eye to the crack in the door.

It’s Larry. Flipping through the contents of Melrose’s purse like a casual browser at the record store. And she can’t quite _believe_ it – monosyllabic _Larry_ – probably the best of their three operators. Dependable, if dull. He plucks out a lipstick, considering it for a long moment before putting it in his back pocket, and shuffles out as casually as he crept in.

And she’s shaking, she realises. Breathing hard, like she’s been wrestling. Brain still reeling—

“Hey,” Sam barely looks up from his script as she pushes open the door to their box, moments later. “Anything?”

She opens her mouth, but the words are hard. Even now her mind feels like a clock that’s losing time; cogs turning, clicking, misfiring. Trying to find a way to rationalise, to normalise, what she’s just seen. Surely, he can’t—? Maybe she’s just mistaken…

“Ruth?” Sam is frowning at her, concerned. “Are you alright? What the fuck happened?”

“Larry,” she croaks.

“He’s not back from his break yet or—?”

“It’s Larry,” she says, stronger now. “I just watched him… take something from Melrose’s purse.”

He blinks at her, nonplussed. “You didn’t try and stop him?”

“No, I —” She stops, feeling stupid now he’s said it. “It wasn’t – I didn’t feel like I _could_ —”

It’s hard to articulate the frozen _what the fuck_ feeling; the fear. It’s not often she _envies_ Sam – he’s got a knack for making most of life seem like hard work, after all – but she can’t help but wonder what it’s like, to live in a world where storming out of a toilet cubicle to confront a man twice her size is a valid option.

She might just be about to find out. He stands, tugging down his sweater. “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t follow! I just came here.”

“Alright, alright.” He purses his lips. “I have an idea…”

She keeps pace with him, off their set; out of their casino, into the parking lot. “There!” she hisses, spotting a familiar bald head and bulging turtle neck, closing the trunk of a battered VW.

They duck behind a convenient Buick, letting Larry pass back inside, finishing a cigarette. 

“Keep an eye out,” says Sam.

“For _what_? What are you—?”

But the answer is obvious: he’s pulled the VW’s windshield wiper up from the glass and is now studiously peeling the rubber part of the blade away. A long strip of metal inside is easily bent into a hook, which he uses to fish around in the driver’s door. Sam grins as the metal catches and he levers the door lock upwards. “Piece of cake,” he says, opening the door.

Inside is the standard mess of old car interiors: dust, empty soda cans, yesterday’s papers. “I don’t think we should touch anything,” she blurts, as Sam opens the glove-compartment.

Panties, lipsticks, Debbie’s hairbrush cascades out. A stash of stolen personal effects. 

“Shit,” Sam says, eventually. Curiously flat.  

She swallows rising bile. “We should call the police.”

He shakes his head. “Not how things work around here.”

“What do you mean, not how things _work_?”

“I mean you don’t go running to the cops, Ruth! It’s not that kind of town. Oh, come on. Even you’re not _this_ naïve.” He shakes his head. “We can talk to Ray, maybe…”

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.”

He pops the trunk, grim-faced. In for a penny, she supposes. There’s a flashlight, a tire iron. A pair of scuffed brown boots. And a small plastic box filled with what look like Polaroid pictures. Sam opens the lid slowly, pulling out a frame at random.

Her stomach turns over. It’s a picture of her. Ruth, not Zoya; caught with her hand half-way to her hair. She vaguely recognises the background, the _In ‘n’ Out Burger_ they sometimes frequent after rehearsals. Larry hasn’t just been taking things: he’s been following them around too.

Sam puts the picture back and closes the box, very carefully. His expression is unreadable as he passes it to her, slams the trunk shut.

“Are we… going to see Ray?” she asks, as they hurry back inside. Taking two steps to every one of his.   

“Nope.”

They cross the threshold onto their set. “Don’t—” she tries. But there’s little point to the protest. He’s not really listening, anymore. Reacting rather than thinking.

“Hey, Larry.” A metallic edge to his voice, but only if you know him, only if you’re listening for it. The cameraman turns, oblivious.

“Yeah?”

“You’re fucking fired.”

Pin-drop silence falls, the rest of the room suddenly holding their breath. “ _What_? Why?”

“Really? _That’s_ the route you want to go down? Alright. How about this: because you stole from my actors and you’re a fucking creep. Get the hell off my set.”

Larry’s face has gone very red. “What the _fuck_ are you talking about? You can’t just say shit like that!"

“I saw you, Larry.” Her voice sounds too high, too thin. She feels vaguely nauseous. “In the locker room… Please, just go.” 

“No,” he snaps, striding over to her. “I’ve had just about enough of doing what _you_ fucking say—”

And Sam punches him in the face.

The world seems to slip into slow motion. Several of the women yelp with shock. Larry staggers backwards, blood spurting from what is very probably a broken nose. Sam advances, grabbing a handful of brown turtleneck and dragging the ex-cameraman bodily to the door. “I catch you near any of these girls again,” he says, voice so low Ruth can barely hear him, “I’ll fucking kill you. _Capisce_?”  

Larry manages a nod, still clutching at his nose. Sam pushes him outside and slams the door shut.

For a moment the world holds its breath. Fourteen pairs of eyes on him as he winces slightly, shaking out his hand. His knuckles are already blooming purple. “Alright people,” he says. The stranger rescinding; the Sam they all know back in his place. “Show’s over. Audience is going to be here in fifteen.” He nods at Ruth, sucking her into his wake as he strides back to their editing box. “I’ll operate,” he says in an undertone. “You take the booth?”

“I—” she manages.

“What?” Genuinely confused. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I don’t know, Sam! Maybe because you just broke someone’s _nose_?”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “Creep deserved it.”

“Oh, great! I’m sure if we put it _that_ way the police will be just _fine_ about it—”

He laughs. “Relax. I told you. Not that kind of town. Now, are we going to shoot this fucking show, or what?”

* * *

“And I can’t believe what I’m seeing!” announces Bash. “Welfare Queen is _refusing_ to let Zoya take this match— but what’s this? Oh, she’s climbing onto the ropes, folks!”

From the ring Ruth is aware of movement over at the main door, but she can’t afford to let her attention wander from Tammé. She nods, and her friend is flying towards her—

“Oof! That’s got to hurt!” shouts Bash, as they crash hard on the mat together, just as they’ve rehearsed. “I think this might just be _do_ _svidaniya_ for the dastardly Russian…”

“One,” counts Keith, slamming the mat, “two!” And in an undertone, between the counts: “Looks like trouble, over by the door…”

Ruth nods, rolling out of the ring as Tammé crows an even more jubilant victory than usual. Trying to deflect attention from…

Oh, _fuck_.

“Can I help you, officers?” she squeaks, hurrying over to where Melrose is attempting to stall the men in uniform. “We’re — uh, this is a live taping—”

“We’re looking for Sam Sylvia,” says the taller of the two.

“Uh-huh,” she manages, swallowing hard. She’s rather eat her _ushanka_ than lie to the police, but she has a horrible feeling Sam might expect some sort of Mafiosa loyalty while he makes a quick getaway—

“There a problem here?”

She turns open-mouthed, as he confounds her admittedly rather fanciful expectation. Chin outthrust, eyes narrowed. Stalking over like this is noon at the O.K. Corral.  

“Sam Sylvia?”

“That’s me,” he confirms, with a nod of his head just sort of insolence. And _of course_ he’s allergic to cops, she thinks, with a stab of irritation. He’s anti every kind of authority, expect for his own. “Is there a reason you’re—?”

She flinches as the men move swiftly in reply, grabbing hold of his arms and twisting painfully. What looks like a swift boot, applied to the back of his knees, helps him on his way down to the floor. He grunts in pain as they apply the handcuffs. “We’re arresting you on suspicion of aggravated battery,” says the tall one.

“You do not have to say anything,” continues his partner, “but anything you _do_ say can be used against you in a court of law…”

Her mouth is still hanging open as they pull him up onto his feet. “Yeah,” he spits, scowling at her like _she’s_ somehow the cause of all this. “So I’ve fucking heard.”


	16. Criminal Record

He sits in the holding cell, arms folded, leg bouncing with furious energy. It’s a Friday night in Vegas so he’s got plenty of company. The drunks – one puking, the other singing - are annoying. The guy crying guy in the corner is disturbing; the one chanting Biblical verses under his breath is even more so.

And Sam, in the middle of it all, a compressed ball of rage. He really is too _old_ for this shit. Should at least have learned when to keep his fucking mouth _shut—_

A guard approaches. Most of the men in the cell turn to look at him, expectant, although Pukey and Cry-Baby are oblivious.

“Sam Sylvia?”

He stands. “Yep.”

“Out you go.”

He isn’t sure who to expect, waiting for him on the other side. A large part of him hopes it might be Ruth. But the look of quiet horror on her face in the aftermath of his right hook, and as the cops slapped on the cuffs, makes him doubt—

It’s Julia. Seeming small and out of place in the station reception. “Well, you look like hell,” she says lightly.

“Mm.” He hasn’t been in sight of a mirror yet to survey the damage.

“Ruth told me what happened when she brought tonight’s tape over,” she continues as they walk out together. “I had a feeling you might… need a friend. And maybe a lawyer.”

He digests this. There’s a lot to take in, and he’s already fuming. “Right,” he says, eventually. “I’ve got a lawyer.” A thank you might have been better, he supposes, but the words taste too bitter right now to wrap his tongue around.

“You sound like you could do with a drink.” 

“Yeah.” Still chewing the inside of his own mouth; still stewing. “I mean, if you’re offering, I wouldn’t say no.”

* * *

Sometimes he feels like he just _watches_ himself making shitty decisions. Wincing from the dispassionate editing booth of his own brain: oh, you fool; you fucking idiot. As if he himself has no control over the flow of events, propelling him forward from fuck-up to fuck-up.

Julia brings him ice for his black eye and a washcloth to sponge the worst of the blood from his swollen nose. And bourbon, as if he needs any extra help with that shitty decision making. One glass, two glass, three…

“Feel any better?”

“A little.”

“You want to lie down?”

Yes, he thinks; but not here, and not with her. “Sure,” he says.  

And now they’re on her bed and she’s unbuttoning his shirt gently. Gasping sympathy for the bruises flowered on his chest. The marks of a fist, a night-stick, a knee. At least he’s still got all his teeth.

“What _happened_?”

He shrugs, trying not to wince. “I think the technical term is…. non-compliance.”

She goes to fetch more ice. Maybe this is what she wants, he thinks, as he sinks into the soft pillows. He doubts the boring, dependable _Frank_ ever rolled home black-and-blue. Perhaps there’s a frisson of excitement to be had on the edge of his catastrophe curve; maybe this kind of thing is _fun_ when you can give it up, any time you like…

It stopped being fun for him, at the heart of it, a long, long time ago.

He kisses her when she returns to press more ice against his bruises. It seems like the thing to do. Cold and pain and warmth and softness, all at the same time. His addict brain usually _loves_ overstimulation—

Right now, it just feels vaguely guilty. The weight of it sits like a stone in his stomach, making him sickly miserable as they roll through the motions. Her hand finds his half-hearted hard-on, and she stops kissing him and sighs.

“We don’t… _have_ to do this.”

“I know. Look, I’m sorry. It’s just… been a wild couple of weeks, you know? Between the fire and the fighting and – and everything else.”

“Mm.” She presses her lips together. “Does that include you sleeping with Ruth?”

He almost chokes on air. “ _What_? No! I mean, we haven’t—”

There’s a hint of a frown now between her eyebrows. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by trying to deny it. I’m not angry about it.”

He feels like he’s being inched over a very deep chasm on a very thin plank. “…You’re not?”

“No,” she says, although she still sounds a little short, if he’s honest. “This was just fun. There were no expectations.”

Was. The use of the past tense isn’t lost on him. Still, there’s an awkward question to be asked. “How did you—?”

“Oh, please. You went from constant petty bickering to strained politeness overnight. Anyone with half a brain could tell.”

“Fuck.” Even Bash has half a brain. Debbie considerably more so. He hopes the drama of their own lives has been distraction enough from the apparently obvious conclusion.

“Look,” she continues, “if things are… complicated again, why don’t we just say thanks for the good times and leave things here?”

“Uh.” He’s still marvelling slightly at the _speed_ with which they’ve gone from tender ministrations to auf wiedersehen, goodbye. “Yeah. I mean, I guess—” He swallows. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

She nods. “You can stay in the guest room, if you like.” He thinks she means it as a kindness, rather than casting him out drunk and bruised into the night. But he’s got a _shred_ of fucking pride left.

“Thanks,” he says coldly, buttoning up his shirt, “but I’d rather just get a goddamn cab.”

* * *

 

_“Oof! That’s got to hurt!”_ says Bash, on tape. _“I think this might just be_ do svidaniya _for the dastardly Russian…”_

He blows smoke, watching Ruth’s cut of their latest show.  It’s good. A little safe in places, if he was giving criticism, but solid. In keeping with the three previous episodes of their season so far.

DIRECTED BY SAM SYLVIA say the credits, as always. ASSISTED BY RUTH WILDER. He wonders why she kept his name; if he would have done the same in her place.

Probably not.

The door opens, and the subject of his musing walks in, distracted and digging in her bag for something. Her eyes widen when she looks up and finds him in his usual seat. “Oh, hey! Hi. I… thought you’d still be at Julia’s—”

“You cut the show together.”

He sees her stand just a little taller, bracing herself for the expected onslaught. “Yeah,” she says, far too breathy casual. “I didn’t know if you’d get released, and the network needed the tape on time… So, yeah. I did it.” She bites her lip in the ensuing silence, awaiting his response.

Honestly, he isn’t too sure _himself_ what’s going to come out of his mouth when he eventually opens it. There’s a part of him - larger than he’d like - still very angry she’s taken the job away from him. Warring with the side of him that is heart-achingly soft on her; wanting only to hold her again, hear her tell him that everything will be okay…

“Right,” he says flatly. He thinks that’s a tie.

She looks away. “What… um, what happened to your face?”

“What always happens when someone calls the cops.”

“I _didn’t_ —”

“I _know_ —"

“But I wanted to,” she continues, shutting him up. “About the photos.”

He goggles at her. “Are you _insane_?”

“Are _you_? This isn’t the Wild West, Sam! It’s nineteen-eighty-six! It can’t just be about who can… punch the hardest anymore.”

He sighs, folding his arms. He’s not stupid. He understands why she wants to believe that; what it means for her. But the bruises he’s wearing are surely proof enough that the more things change, the more some things stay the same. “We involve the cops,” he warns, “we lose _any_ credibility with Ray and all the rest of those guys.”

She nods. “I know, but… _Teletape_ bought out those contracts. I get that those guys are your friends but—”

“It’s not about _friends_ , Ruth. It’s deeper than that. It’s about respect, and family, and—”

“You make it sound like the _Godfather_!”

He shrugs. “I guess it is. Those boys used to run Vegas. Now?” He blows out his mouth. “I don’t have a fucking clue.” He suddenly feels very old, and very tired. “Do what you want, Ruth. I mean, you usually do anyway.”  

It’s a shot across her bows. “Right,” she says, nodding to the floor rather than let him see her eyes, glassy with tears of hurt.

“Oh, fuck,” he says softly. “Look, how about we just skip the part where we spend weeks not speaking to each other? Hmm?” Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but getting there. “How’s this instead: I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Risking a criminal record by punching someone?”

He goes poker-faced. “Yes. Risking… that.” He rolls his eyes at her aghast expression. “Look, it’s not for… beating up little old ladies. Alright? Just a side effect of being young, stupid and Sicilian. Once upon a time.”

She considers this. “Or _old_ , stupid and—”

“Alright, alright. Have some sympathy, why don’t you? I’m in pain here.”

She takes the seat next to him at last, pushing his carton of cigarettes over to indicate a truce. “Is it bad?”

“I’ll live.” He taps his fingers on the carton. “Uh, the tape was good, by the way.”

She can’t help herself, a smile lighting up her face like the sun. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says. And he can’t help but _mirror_ her grin, feel the weight he’s carrying in his chest lift at the sight of it. “I mean, I’ve got notes. If you want them. But it was good, Ruth.” He takes another cigarette out of the packet, rolling it between his fingers. Suddenly unable to look at her. “It was good.”


	17. Hot and Cold

“You’re going to _break_ it—”

“I’m not even _touching_ it, look—”

“Yes, you are! Look, there’s a thumb print—"

“Oh, my _God_. Fine. It’s fine—” Their argument is interrupted by a knock on the door. Sam coughs, and finally puts down the fake Fabergé egg. “Come in!”

Julia puts her head round the booth door. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

Silence stretches, just a second too long. “Uh, we’re pretty much finished,” Ruth gabbles, covering the awkward moment. Suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close they are sitting, heads bent over their latest script draft; fighting over the prop egg. She pushes her chair back. “I will leave you two to your evening—”

“I just came by to deliver these, that’s all,” Julia says, waving a hand for Ruth to remain. “Two birds with one stone.” She holds out a pair of gilt-edged invitations. Ruth takes one and squints at the curling script.

 _You are cordially invited_ _to the 19 th _Neon Productions _Season Opening Gala_ …

“Oh,” says Sam at last. Making a face she _knows_ precedes a negative answer—

“We’d be honoured to attend! You know, we – we –” How does Debbie always put it? “We’re proud to be a part of the _Neon_ family...”

Sam coughs again. “Yeah,” he says, not meeting Julia’s eye. “I guess we’ll see you there.” He sighs as the door shuts, shaking his head. The put-upon-air is frankly infuriating.

“Sam! We’re halfway through our run! Don’t you _want_ our contracts extending?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grouses, “but, you know, because of our _audience_ figures. I mean, call me old-fashioned—”

“What happened to ‘we go because it’s what the boss wants?’ Besides, it’ll be… _fun_. Julia will be hosting, and I bet Ray will be going.”

“Jesus Christ. I’m not _twelve_. I can go to a party without needing a friend.”  

“Fine!” She raises her eyebrows at him, unconvinced as she gathers up her notes. “I’m going to meet Debbie and Bash for some food. You want to join us, or…?”

“Nope.”

Rolled eyes for that. “Well, I’ll see you on Monday, then. Have a good weekend.”

“Yep.”    

She leaves him to his brooding. Hot and cold, she thinks. Rosalie was right. Tracking his mood from moment to moment is just too _exhausting_ —

“Ruth? Wait… wait a minute, would you?” She turns to find him following, face anxious. “I’ll come. For food, I mean. That is if you actually _want—_ ”

“I do,” she says, before her brain catches up. She swallows. “We, um, we all do,” she corrects.  

“Hmm.” He frowns as he comes to join her, clearly sceptical. “So, which grand café are you all meeting at?”

“Oh, just the corner diner...”

* * *

Somehow; she isn’t sure _quite_ how; they end up walking back to the casino together.

“Debbie was right you know,” he says, stopping to light his cigarette.

“Hmm?”

“It was a good show tonight.”

“Oh,” she says, with a faux arrogance she’ll never really feel, “I know.”

He smiles at that, recognising shades of himself in her reply, she supposes. “Of course, now we have to top it next week…”

“I have some ideas.”

“I’ll bet.” He shakes ash onto the sidewalk, earning himself a reproving frown. “Wanna meet tomorrow to get some down on paper?”

And it’s just _work_ , she reminds herself. Even if he is looking anxious again, awaiting her decision like he’s just asked her to Prom. “Sure,” she says. Because isn’t this the dream? Finding a job you love so much it doesn’t feel like work? That’s what’s at the root of this flutter of excitement in her stomach, surely... “Twelve o’clock?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he nods, putting his cigarette back in his mouth.

Sounds like a date, she doesn’t say. “Looking forward to it already.”  

* * *

There’s a pianist in the lobby. Ornamental urns filled with flowers and Doric columns. Her high heels click across the marble floor tiles as she hurries inside; running later than she’d like, invitation in hand. Pushing open the first set of doors she finds herself at the top of a Cinderella staircase. Down at the bottom, behind a pair of ornate glass doors, are the lights and hubbub of a party starting. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself—

And stops at the sight of a familiar pair of sloping shoulders.

Sam. Pacing the floor outside the ballroom. If she didn’t know better, she might think he was trying to build up the courage to walk inside alone. She puts her head on one side, smiling in spite of herself. There’s something almost _endearing_ about him like this, anxious, almost little-boy lost. All the swagger and bravado layered up in self-defence is gone, and it’s the softer Sam hesitating at the door, the one she so rarely sees. A lighter in his hand, fingers fumbling the lid open and closed distractedly. The stairs are red-carpeted, muffling her feet as she descends, and he has no idea she is almost right behind him.

 “Hi,” she says, soft, rather than catch him by surprise. 

He visibly flinches; spinning on his heel to face her, scowling. Expression changing when he realises who she is. He’s not quite open-mouthed with shock, but something close. “Hi,” he says, sounding like himself at least. “Nice dress.”

“Thanks.” She bites her lip, considering. “I like your fancy suit…”

“Oh, come on.” His frown back in place, suddenly disbelieving. “Really?”

“Yeah! The red velvet suits you.”

“Hmm…”

“Are you… waiting for Debbie and Bash?”

“No, no. I just—” He sighs, but gives the truth a go. “I just hate walking into these things by myself.”

“Mmm. Me too.” She extends an elbow, grinning. “Want me to walk you in?”

Something tightens in his face, a look of almost suspicion. “Oh, _sure_.” Sarcastic. As if the offer is some sort of trap, rather than the act of support she means it as. He links his arm through hers, nonetheless. “Alright. Let’s do this…”

Together, they step into the unknown.

* * *

“Ruth, this is Gary.” Julia, catching her alone by a champagne sculpture, titanic hulk in tow. “He’s also a wrestler…”

“Hi!” she manages, almost spilling her drink. “I – uh—”

“You’re Zoya, right?” He smiles, as Julia moves on to more hosting duties. “Have to say: I _loved_ the whole kidnap storyline with Liberty Belle last season.”

“Oh! You watched… us?”

“Yeah, I watched!” he laughs. He has very white teeth, she finds herself noticing. “I watch all the wrestling shows. Gotta keep up with the competition, right?”

“Right!” she hears herself agreeing, laughing too. Across the room she can see Sam, in conversation with some other dinner-jacketed men. He catches her eye for a second, giving her a twitch of a smile before turning away.

And maybe it’s just champagne logic, but it’s almost as if she can _feel_ where he is in the room as she exchanges more pleasantries with the distractingly handsome Gary. Like they’re two poles of a magnet. A strange force between them, drawing them back into orbit whether they want it to or not. She finds herself at his side again half an hour later, ostensibly examining the long table of canapes.

“Having fun?” she says to cheese plate.

“Not as much as you…” he replies, helping himself to some stuffed olives.

She shakes her head. “Gary’s another wrestler. We’re just… exchanging professional courtesies…”

“Oh, is that what you kids are calling it these days?” She risks looking at him, in the same moment as he turns to her. And there’s a smile somewhere underneath the mustache, she’s almost sure, though his eyes are sad. He runs his tongue over his teeth, considering his next words. “It’s a party,” he offers. “You’re allowed to have… fun.”

She finds she is looking at the canapes again rather than him. Somehow, everything is so much easier when they’re working together. Like wrestling with Debbie; she knows exactly where he is when they’re talking camera angles and story ideas. Here and now they’re off script, and its making her palms sweat. “Uh, did you - did you go inside the glasshouse yet?”

“No. Did you?”

“No.” She swallows the lump in her throat. “Wanna?”


	18. The Glasshouse

“Good evening sir, madame,” says the attendant. “You might want to leave your jacket here. It’s warmer inside the glasshouse. We also request that there is no smoking inside.”

Sam rolls his eyes but hands over his red velvet jacket to join the others, neatly arranged on hangers outside the greenhouse doors. They step inside and wet, faux-tropical heat slaps into them.

“Woah,” says Ruth, gaping up at the ceiling. The foliage of the trees inside almost obscures the glass above, but somewhere beyond is the faint twinkle of stars.

“I know, right? I’ve been asking about permissions to film in here. Have this idea for a _Tarzan of the Apes_ thing…”

“Or _The Jungle Book_?” she suggests, still craning her neck. He can see her pulse, beating in her throat. She’s distressingly beautiful tonight, in her off-the-shoulder green dress. Somewhere between Zoya and Ruth, which always does something complicated to his libido. He looks away, feeling vaguely guilty, as she babbles on. “We could all have different animal characters! Shere Khan versus Bagheera… Oh, and Sheila could be Akela!”

“I guess. Permits are apparently a pain in the ass to obtain.”

“Well, _that_ figures…”

They walk on amongst the tropical fronds, stopping to examine a plantation of vaguely bird-like orchids. Ruth leans in to a large flower and disturbs a cloud of brilliant blue butterflies. She flinches as they take flight around her, closing her eyes. 

“Are they… on me?”

“There’s one in your hair,” he confirms, amused at her reaction. He forgets she can be surprisingly prissy about things like this. 

“Can it –? Will it _bite_ if I…?”

“Christ, what were the fucking butterflies like where _you_ grew up?” He comes to her rescue, gently lifting the insect out from her hair. “Here.” She opens her eyes to take in the jewelled thing, still looking concerned. “Probably thought you were a flower,” he says, shaking his hand to encourage it to take flight.

“A flower?” She sounds sceptical. “Really?”

“Yeah. You know. With the… green.” He swallows. “What? Are you worried I was giving you a compliment?”

“Weren’t you?” she teases. She’s close enough for him to smell her borrowed perfume; to see the fine lines that crease the corner of her eyes as she smiles up at him. Too close.

“No,” he manages. The stupid butterfly flutters back, breaking the moment between them, landing on his shoulder.

“Oh,” she says, “guess you’re a flower too.”

He brushes the thing away rather than look at her. “Maybe one of those carnivorous ones.”

She laughs. “A cactus.”

“Oh, come on—”

“All spikey on the outside—”

“Mm-hm.” They walk on, deeper into the fake forest. There’s a little stream with a wooden arch of a bridge across it. “What, there’s nothing else you want to add?”

“I’m thinking—” She catches her heel between the planks of the bridge, stumbling before she can finish her sentence. He reacts instinctive, catching hold of her arm.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine,” she winces, struggling to pull her foot free. “Just my stupid shoe.”

It is resolutely stuck. She wobbles on one leg, using his arm for balance as she considers her options.

“I mean, I can probably carry you out…”  

She gives him a black look. “I’d rather hop.”

“Alright, alright. Hold still, Cinderella.”

He crouches to consider the problem. A lot on the line here, he thinks, giving the shoe a test tug.

“Is it...?”

He pulls, hard, and the heel mercifully comes free. “There you go,” he says, standing up and handing it to her. “Now, don’t get the other one stuck—”

The kiss comes as a surprise; lips brushing his cheek before he has a chance to react. “Thanks,” she says, to the floor, as she slips her shoe back on. Her cheeks are pinking, and he's still standing in shock. “I mean, for the—"

“Ruth?”

She looks up, blue eyes big enough to drown in. “Yeah,” she says. An answer, he thinks, rather than a question.

He takes her worried face in both his hands in reply, and kisses her. Soft at first, slow. Eyes closed, and all he can hear is the chirrup of the insects that keep the glasshouse growing; the soft little sound of her breath hitching as his fingers tangle in her hair...

“Oh, this is a bad idea,” she breathes, breaking the kiss. Her forehead still against his, eyes closed.

“I know,” he says. Pressing his lips to hers again, butterfly soft, as she considers their predicament. “I don’t fucking care.”

“Oh, big surprise...” She lets him win, mouth opening under his again. Kissing him greedily for another long moment before common sense gets the better of her. “Mmph. Not here.”  

And she’s got a point: it’s a miracle no one else has walked by.  “Alright,” he says, nodding. “Come on.”

He doesn’t have an end in mind, if he’s honest, but she follows him out of the greenhouse like it’s all part of some plan. She picks up an information card while he collects his jacket, buying time to think about what the hell to do next. “They’ve been collecting tropical plants since nineteen fifty-three,” she informs him. “Apparently it’s the largest collection in the state of Nevada…”

“In terms of numbers or the size of the fucking plants?” They walk away, nonchalant, like they are simply heading back to the party. He surreptitiously rattles the door knobs as they pass.

“Ha. _Good_ question.”

A door opens under his hand. An office of some kind; desk, chair, cheese plant—

Ruth is kissing him again before he can take in anymore of the details. He pushes her back against the door, bodies pressed together now. Blindly fumbling for the hem of her dress; the satin fabric sliding up, up over her thighs as she unbuckles his belt.

“Oh, Christ,” he hears himself say. Hard and half out of his pants already. He traces the inside of her leg with his thumb; over soft skin and the cotton and lace of her underwear. Dropping to his knees before she can undress him any further, following the path of his thumb with his tongue.

“Oh, fuck,” she breathes, as he moves upwards. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ” Fingers curling almost painfully tight into his hair, as he finally pulls down her panties and presses his mouth against her. “Don’t stop. God _._ _Don’t_ —”

For once, he’s happy to follow her instructions.


	19. Show Night

Her own pale face stares back at her, out of the bathroom mirror. Eyes wide.

“Ruth?”

And there’s nothing in her reflection, really, that would give away what’s just happened. Her hair is a little mussed, her cheeks a little flushed. Easily explained away by dancing, or a visit to the glasshouse.

 _Or Sam, lifting her up onto the desk to better_ —

“Ruth, are you okay?”

She snaps back to reality at the sound of Debbie’s voice. “I’m fine,” she hears herself saying, perfectly level. “Just uh, a little – a little…”

“Distracted?”

“Sorry,” she says, automatic.

Debbie shrugs. “For what?”

Oh, jeopardizing everything, says the inner voice. And she feels a little bit sick. An echo of the guilt she carried around for weeks after what happened with Mark… happened. Mixed with something else. Excitement, maybe. Relief. She isn’t sure.

Really, she wants to go and sit somewhere very quietly for a while, to try and make sense of the tangle of feelings that weigh like a stone in her chest. Happiness and fear and guilt and desire; all at war inside her ribcage—

“Ruth?” Debbie says again, frowning concerned now. “Have you…? Did someone put something in your _drink_?”

“No, I’m okay,” she says, forcing herself into the moment. “Did you already go inside the glasshouse?”

“Oh, yes, Bash and Julia took me on quite a tour,” Debbie answers wryly, touching up her lipstick now.

She watches her dully for a moment. “I thought it would be a good filming location.”

“Hmm.” Debbie nods, sheathing the lipstick. “Permits are apparently—”

“—a pain in the ass. I know. Sam said.”

“Oh, is he here? I didn’t see him earlier.”

“He’s around…” she says, managing to keep the guilty squeak from her voice. “I think I saw him earlier.” She swallows. “By the buffet.”

They leave the ladies’ room together, heading down the corridor towards the party. Passing the door she left Sam behind, still tucking in his shirt; doing up his belt. When they sweep into the ballroom the party is in full swing, disco thumping and lights down low.

“How much longer do you think you can stand?” asks Debbie.

“I’ll split a cab home,” she answers with a smile.

She catches sight of him once more, just before they leave. On his way out of the door with Ray and Julia, and several other scowling shareholders she recognises by sight if not by name. She thinks maybe he smiles at her, from across the room. His mouth thinning under his mustache, at any rate, before he disappears into the night.

The weight on her chest presses harder as the door shuts behind him, for reasons she can’t unpick right now.

* * *

She wakes late, a little after eleven. Her green dress is in a crumpled heap on the bedroom floor, mascara smudged under her eyes. She’s supposed to be meeting him in forty-five minutes to talk about script ideas. Like Friday nights editing together, Saturday afternoon script-writing has become another little ritual. And she has no idea, none at all, how _that’s_ going to play out now.

Maybe they’ll just pretend nothing happened, she thinks, as she steps into her shower. Maybe he went and won big on the slots last night, and he’ll reveal a plan to retire to Florida. Or maybe Julia took him home again.

The only way to know, she tells herself, is to go.

She arrives early, intending to be buried in work already by the time he pitches up. She pushes open the door of the editing box—

He’s early too. Judging from the butts in the ashtray, the smoke in the air, he’s been there for quite a while.

“Hi,” he says. “We should… uh. Probably talk. About. Things.”

She puts her folder down, very carefully. Quietly ignoring their office encounter, it seems, is off the table. “Mm-hm.” But she doesn’t have the words, nor the courage to hold his anxious gaze. She studies her sneakers minutely instead: if he’s so keen to talk _he_ can make the first move, for a change. 

“Um,” he tries eventually. “…I don’t actually know what to say.”

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth at that. “Me either.” She risks a glance up at him. Still pressing his lips together, deeply uneasy.

“If you want to—”

“We should maybe—”

They both stutter to a stop. “You go,” she says.

“No, you were going to say…?”

She really has no idea. Opens and closes her mouth a few times. “Can we just… talk about this later? I know that… we should but, I _really_ want to focus on the work right now, and—”

“Alright,” he says, looking relieved. “Later.” He clears his throat. “So, how the fuck do we top last week’s battle royale?”

“Easy,” she grins, taking her seat and opening her folder. “I think it’s time for those pyrotechnics…”

* * *

And it is. Surprisingly easy, in fact, to fall back into their usual routine. They read snippets of sketches out loud to one another. His routinely terrible impressions of their characters makes her sides ache with laughter; her earnest monologues crack even his stone-face into a smile. It’s not the final show, not by any stretch, but it’s the core of _something_.

They eat lunch together, and don’t talk about things later.

On Monday, she picks their ideas apart further with Debbie, and the girls start adding their own thoughts. The show takes shape. By Tuesday there are new moves to be perfected, and simply no time to talk to him. The same on Wednesday; she wrestles herself into exhaustion, into deep and dreamless sleep rather than thinking about what she should or shouldn’t say. He closes set on Thursday. Peevish at being overruled by the rest of the production team, but allowing experts in to set up their explosives rather than risk a re-run of the plastic cherub incident. His scowl forecasts only an argument, so she ducks any chance of a conversation.

And Friday, of course, is show night.

* * *

_“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Zoyaaaa!”_

“Okay, cut it there.”

“No, I think we need—”

“C’mon,” he says, “trust me. We need a crowd reaction. This one.” On his monitor, from the second camera feed; a little girl shrieking with mingled joy and rage. There’s something wonderfully primal about her expression.  

“Alright,” she concedes, splicing in the footage. “ _Now_ we need the wide-angle on the explosions…” 

“Ready to go.” He lights a cigarette. “So, are you meeting Debbie and Bash for dinner again tonight?”

“Oh, no,” she says, clicking buttons on her keyboard. “Debbie has Randy this weekend, so… no.”

“Oh.”

She rewinds the tape in the awkward silence.

“If you wanted, we could—?”

“Maybe we can—?"

He clears his throat, putting down his cigarette. “You know, this time last week we were at that stupid party,” he says carefully.

She nods. She doesn’t trust her dry throat with words anymore.

He looks up at the ceiling, at his own hands. Anywhere but her. “Is it… is it later, now?”

She swallows. “I think so.”

“Do you wanna go first, or—?”

“No.”

He nods. “Alright.” Still looking at his hands, on the desk. “I. Um.” He clears his throat again. “I like you.”

He winces at the admission, like he’s expecting a blow. Instead she’s fighting the desire to laugh at his absurdity. That the most obvious fact in this whole… fucked-up thing is clearly the biggest admission, from his perspective. “I know,” she says, just managing to keep the lid on her mirth.

He nods. “Right. Uh…”

“I, um, I actually don’t want to… talk,” she says, before he can dig any deeper. Because really, what is there to say? He’s a bad habit, at the end of the day. She doesn’t want to rationalize it, she just needs another hit. “Please, just… kiss me?”

She doesn't have to ask him twice.


	20. Tomorrow is Tomorrow

He can’t pretend he hasn’t imagined this. Fuck, he’s even dreamt of it on a couple of embarrassingly adolescent occasions, sweeping the contents of his desk onto the floor to make space for them, one hand inside her shirt, the other in her pants; kissing blind.

He’s dreamt of _her_. Of the way she bites her lip when she looks at him at times like this. How stupidly beautiful she is in these unrestrained moments.

And still he has no self-control. None at all, when it comes to Ruth. The table is creaking ominously underneath them as he thrusts frantic between her legs, every breath in gasping duet. She moans softly; her fingers dig into his back. He has just enough presence of mind left to pull out before it's too late, stifling his own noise by burying his face in her neck.

His heart is still pounding when he lifts his head. Of course, now is normally the part where he wakes up. That’s the benefit of a fantasy, no need to deal with _this_ moment. The sweat running down his back, her thighs all sticky. His pants are bunched somewhere around his knees, making any kind of dignified movement difficult. They lie at an awkward angle across the table instead, breathing hard in time. The hiss of static from the monitors an admonition. This isn’t a hotel room they can leave behind, it’s not some stranger’s office. They work in here every damn day. He’s going to have to walk in here and look at this desk and _remember_ …

... her big blue eyes, staring up at him. Almost sad. The curious feeling that she’s thinking the exact same thing.  He touches a finger to her cheek, flushed pink, and tries to pretend everything is going to be okay. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she says. A twitch of a smile for that. Perhaps the question sounded like arrogance, which is ironic given his intention – for once – is only kindness. “I’m alright. Are you?”

He nods. “Yeah. Do you wanna… uh, get some dinner?”

She looks away and he feels like he’s swallowed a stone. “No. Not tonight. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Right. Okay.”

He should have known, really, on some level—

“But I’ll see you tomorrow?” she continues, as he starts to move. “If you… if you still want?”

There’s probably a parallel reality, close at hand, where he screws up his face and stamps his feet about now. Throws his toys out of the pram and tried to make her feel bad. But he’s been there and done that, and it’s only led him back to here. He’s already wrapped around her little finger, what’s the point in fighting it anymore? He’s too old, too tired, and too fucking sad.  

“I’ll be here,” he says instead. “I mean, where the fuck else have I got to go?”

He meant it as a kind of joke, but bitterness twists the words. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and he can’t really look at her anymore. Hands her a box of tissues instead, taking a couple for himself. It’s a convenient excuse to avoid her eyes, cleaning up their latest indiscretion.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we just—?”

“Keep this between us?” he hazards.

She doesn’t smile, but her jaw unclenches slightly. “Only because—”

“I get it,” he says, before she makes him feel worse in a misguided attempt to cheer him up. “Goodnight Ruth.”

She takes the dismissal for what it is, her shoulders slumping. “Night, Sam.”

He watches static snow on their monitors rather than stare after her. Wondering how he’s managed to turn his wildest fantasy into his latest misery, all in the space of less than fifteen minutes.

“Ah, fuck,” he says to himself, alone in the dark, and reaches for his cigarettes.

* * *

He goes home for once; back to his room in the casino. Considers ringing Justine, but it’s already gone midnight. Doesn’t want to frighten her with a call at this time of the night. He reads a book for a while instead, scribbling some pointless scraps of thought down on pieces of paper. Like he’s waiting for something, he realises—

 _Tap tap_.

Something like the knock on his door, just after one in the morning. It’s tentative; as if the knocker really isn't sure whether they want him to open up or not. It’s either Ruth or a _really_ good set up for a robbery.

He opens the door to find the former, wincing awkward. “I didn’t want to wake you if—” she starts, wringing her hands.

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“Can I… come in? Or—?”

“Be my guest,” he says, holding the door for her. She steps inside. Showered and changed since he saw her last. If he was a betting man, he might put money on her having joined the others for post-show celebrations downstairs.  

“I know I’m really bad at this,” she says. Standing in the middle of his room with her eyes screwed shut, like she’s struggling to recall a monologue she’s memorised. It probably is, he thinks as she continues. A speech like this is somehow a very _Ruth_ solution to a problem. “I’ve been trying _so_ hard to _not_ do things like this—”

“Things like what?”

She opens her eyes, blinking surprised as he turns her plan upside down. “Like… Um. Making bad choices—”

“Oh.” Something tightens in his jaw. She’s absolutely right of course; he’s a terrible choice. But it still hurts to be told so to his face.

“Not because of—! I just mean that—” She twists, trying to explain herself before his self-pity can turn to self-defence. “Because we work together. And I… GLOW is… Well, it’s the best thing I’ve ever had, Sam. And I don’t want it to go away.”

“Right,” he says. A metallic edge to his voice. “And if we, you know, slept together, we might not be able to look each other in the eye and just carry on?”

She closes her mouth. He has a point. “No, I just mean...” She tries the other tack. “What’s this going to look like to everyone else?”

He shrugs. “I don’t give a fuck—”

“Right! Right! But you don’t _have_ to. That’s my point. No one’s going to say you… fucked your way into directing. That you slept your way to the top—”

“Neither did you!”

“It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter! Whatever the _reality_ is—”

“Well, if that’s the case - what’s to stop people saying it anyway? It’s not like we’ve been chaperoned the whole time we’ve been working together. Look, Ruth… If this is just another bump in the road, you can tell me. I’m a grown man; I can _take_ it.” She looks as if she believes him on that just about as much as he believes himself.  He sighs. “I know I’m no prize, alright? I’m not asking for fucking… sunshine and rainbows and _forever_ —”

“What are you asking for?”  

It’s his turn to stand blinking. “Something I've never had before,” he manages eventually. “What we have right now. That’s all. For as long as you want it.”

She compresses her mouth. “So, co-directing, and writing—”

“—and editing and fighting over stupid pointless shit. Yeah.” He risks taking a step towards her. “All of that. Nothing changes. But, you know, if we want… when we want…”

They kiss.

It still seems to light up his brain like a fucking Christmas tree. She stands on tip-toe to reach his mouth, arms curling around his neck. And maybe, just _maybe_ he thinks, she might feel the same way. Like the whole universe has telescoped into this moment; the softness of her lips, the smell of her hair—

“I just don’t want us to get caught,” she whispers. Withdrawing, but only as far as the end of his nose. Her eyes are still closed. “Not because I—”

“I get it. We can have rules; we’ll be careful.”

Another kiss. Her fingers curl into his hair, body pressed against his even as she pulls back from his mouth again. “From tomorrow, we’ll have to agree on where and when—”

“Ruth?”

She opens her eyes, looking almost fearful. “What?”

“Tomorrow is tomorrow. Let’s deal with it when we fucking get there.”

For a second, she looks like she might be about to argue with him. Her raises his eyebrows. “Alright,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Tomorrow…”

Which still leaves them tonight, he doesn’t say. The way she’s kissing him leaves no doubt about how they’re going to spend it, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> With enormous thanks to the wonderful savageandwise for Brit-picking and beta reading :)


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